


Bound To Be A Bad Idea

by tizzyspin



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/F, Female Friendship, Slow Build, amen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 69,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tizzyspin/pseuds/tizzyspin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t hate you because you’re a lesbian or a fake-bian or whatever fuckwit.  I hate you because you’re a bitch"</p>
<p>While things with Karma start spiraling out of control Amy keeps finding herself stuck with her soon to be step-sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Faking It or any of its characters in any way.
> 
> A/N: I know what you're thinking. Amy and Lauren? Really? This story came about because of three things. 1.) One of the writers on AE mentioned that the Amy/Lauren shipper name could be Amen. I found that hilarious. I still do. 2.) I love unrepentantly bitchy characters. 3.) I don't sleep.
> 
> Canon through episode 1x04.

Amy Raudenfeld hasn't talked to Karma Ashcroft in 16 hours and 26 minutes and it feels like she's breaking into hives. In the entirety of their friendship this is the longest they've gone without speaking. The strangest part to Amy is that she's the one not talking. She has thirty-eight unanswered phone calls from Karma, and roughly eighty texts – her phone buzzes on her nightstand – make that eighty-one texts. She wants to answer every single one. She wants to apologize for starting a fight about Liam, for acting weird, for not being the kind of friend she wishes she could be. 

Instead she lets the calls go to voicemail and the texts eat up the memory on her phone. Everything has gotten so complicated since she gave in to Karma’s latest plan for world domination. In terms of crazy Karma schemes being fake lesbians in order to win homecoming queen is actually pretty mild. It requires no pyrotechnics or ethically questionable fake disabilities, which is a relief. But then again, none of those plans ever made her have to rethink her entire identity.

Before she'd lost her mind and kissed Karma in front of the entire student body of Hester, Amy had been convinced she was just too smart for the typical high school romance. She looked around at all of her idiot classmates doing stupid things to impress one another, and thanked god she was above all of that. Now she knows she's just as much of an idiot as anyone else. Maybe even more of an idiot, because what kind of moron agrees to fake date her female best friend and then finds herself falling for her. That is beyond high school stupid. That is straight up romantic comedy stupid. 

The worst part is that Amy desperately misses Karma, but can’t figure out how to be around her.

What she really needs is a little bit of space. She and Karma are so thoroughly integrated into each other’s lives that there is literally nowhere for Amy to go that doesn’t hold some sort of Karma related memory. Even the roof of the school has been compromised. Now if Amy so much as looks up during class she is reminded of Karma facing her fear of heights to make an apology sweet enough that she agreed to the whole fake dating business in the first place. But school pales in comparison to Amy's bedroom, where memories of Karma practically seep from the walls. It's overwhelming, and she wants nothing more than a moment where her world stops spinning and she can finally quit feeling like she's going to throw up. So when her mom calls up from downstairs that “Karma is here!” Amy panics and ducks into the one place she absolutely knows even Karma won’t think to look for her - Lauren’s room.

As it turns out, Lauren is also in Lauren’s room, lying on the bed doing her homework. She squeaks as Amy bursts in, shutting the door behind her, and is about to say something when she hears Karma calling from the hallway. 

"Amy?"

Amy’s eyes go wide. She shakes her head at Lauren, silently pleading with her to just for once keep her mouth shut. Lauren’s lips curve into a mean smile. Amy drops to her knees abandoning all pride and begs.

“Please,” she whispers, “Just let me hide here for five minutes. I will do all of your chores for the next week.” 

“Two weeks.” Lauren counters.

“Fine.” Amy agrees desperately just as there is a knock on the door.

Rolling her eyes, Lauren gets up and opens the door, nudging Amy behind it so that she is hidden in the space between the door and the wall.

“Hey,” Karma says, and Amy can make out the side of her face through the crack between the door and the frame, “Have you seen Amy?”

Karma’s hair curls gently around her shoulders. The skin of her cheek and her neck looks smooth and inviting. Amy wishes she could touch it. Then she reminds herself that she could be touching it, cupping Karma’s cheek in her hand and tangling her fingers in those curls, all she has to do is stop hiding and make up with her friend. But if she does that, if she lets herself fall back into Karma’s embrace, she knows that she will never, ever, want to let go. Instead Amy stays silent, holding her breath and listening to her heart thumping in her chest. It’s so loud she wonders if Karma can hear it though the door.

Thank god for Lauren, whose crossed arms Amy can also see through the crack at the edge of the door. Who stands there completely unimpressed, giving nothing away and says, “No. Why the fuck would I know where that dyke is? God, keep your gay drama to yourself.”

“Look, if you see her can you tell her that I’m looking for her?” Karma asks, an edge to her voice.

“What do I look like? A delivery service?” spits Lauren, and she shuts the door in Karma’s face.

Amy stays frozen against the wall. She hears Karma’s footsteps retreating down the stairs. When they disappear completely she finally allows herself to breathe. She slides her back down the wall until she’s sitting on the floor, hands on her bent knees.

Lauren hops back on her bed.

“Thank you.” Amy says. 

Lauren doesn’t look up. “Whatever. Have fun doing my chores for three weeks.”

“It was two weeks!” Amy protests. Lauren just raises and eyebrow and smiles her tight little smile. “Fine,” Amy concedes, “Three weeks.”

Lauren goes back to doing her homework and Amy just sits rubbing her sweaty palms against her jeans. Something was going to have to be done about Karma, but not right now. Lauren doesn’t say anything else, which Amy is so grateful for she almost doesn’t mind the extra week of chores. She concentrates on breathing. In and out. After a few minutes she feels herself calm down. For the first time since Shane held her hand over his head and announced she and Karma were running for homecoming queens Amy feels like her head isn’t about to explode. 

She gets up and opens Lauren’s door. As she closes it behind her, she looks back at Lauren, petite and perfect, laid out on the bed like a doll. Lauren keeps her eyes trained on her history book, ignoring Amy completely. Amy shuts the door.

Amy keeps avoiding Karma. It's still killing her that they're not talking, but Amy honestly doesn’t know what to say. Instead she hangs out with Shane. She’s starting to think she might actually like Shane. It’s his fault all of this stuff with Karma is happening, but at the same time he is easy to talk to and willing to help her. He takes her to a lesbian coffee house and tries to keep her from embarrassing herself too much. 

He doesn’t succeed. The whole endeavor is a disaster with Amy basically assaulting poor unsuspecting lesbians and acting like an overly aggressive frat boy in a movie. Still, he stays and he tries to cheer her up. He helps her make an online dating profile and is genuinely excited when the girl who messages her is, in fact, super cute. He even volunteers to stay and debrief the date with her, lounging around her room until she gets home. It’s the kind of thing Karma would do, which sends a flash of pain through Amy’s body. Even though Shane is being really really great she still misses Karma so much it physically hurts.

Amy goes on the date. The girl is as cute as her picture. Like when she spent time with Oliver, Amy doesn’t want to stab her eyes out. They talk about school and make jokes that they both laugh at. It’s actually going well until Amy launches herself at the girl’s lips and then runs away. 

Luckily for Amy her date is not only cute and funny, she is also really understanding. They talk about Karma, which doesn’t alleviate any of Amy’s fears but at least makes her feel less alone. 

When she gets home Shane is still there, sitting on her bed paging though her diary. Something in her heart clenches a little. For all his flip comments about only being in this for the drama, he is still there in her room as he promised. She decides she definitely likes Shane. He's excited as he asks how the date went. When Amy tells him she doesn’t want to go out with any more girls or guys, he just responds with, “I guess we know what that makes you.”

“We do?” she asks, suddenly afraid he’s going to label her a hopeless case or something and just walk out.

“You’re a Karmasexual.” he says with a smile. It’s definitely one kind of answer, but not one that solves any of her problems.

Amy collapses face first onto her bed. She wishes this day was over. She wishes she could just go back to when things made sense. Shane is telling her to talk to Karma. 

“Tell her how you feel!” 

It’s easy for him to say it. He's not the one risking anything.

“She’s been my best friend since Kindergarten.” Amy says and she feels the tears pricking at her eyes, “If I tell her we will just drift apart until one day we’ll meet in line at the grocery store and say polite hellos and pretend we didn’t once know everything there was to know about each other.”

“I’ve seen you two together,” Shane says, “She’s always kissing you or holding your hand. It’s pretty clear she loves you.”

He’s right. For a minute Amy lets herself believe that all of the kissing and touching means the same thing to Karma that it does to her. Then she remembers Karma’s face as she sang on stage during the Occupy Hester protest. How she smiled when she saw Amy, and how she positively glowed when she looked at Liam. No matter how much Karma loves her, it’s not the same. Amy doesn’t make Karma glow like that and she knows it. Still, she listens to Shane as he tries to convince her that Karma might feel something for her. Everybody likes a happy ending, and he is no exception. It would be fairy tale perfect if it turned out that Karma was hiding her true feelings all along as well, but nothing else in Amy’s life has ever been a fairy tale. She’s not inclined to think this thing with Karma will end well at all.

“You’ll never figure this out by hiding from her.” Shane tells her. 

He’s right again. She watches him as he glides out of her room, confident and poised. Amy wishes she could be like that. She wonders if that confidence is real or if he’s just really good at faking it. Or maybe he faked it until it became real. That’s the thought still bouncing around her head when she finally picks up the phone and answers Karma’s 76th call.

“Karma? Hey…”

It’s a good talk. Karma apologizes first, followed by Amy. Karma swears to be a better friend and to play all of her songs for Amy before anyone else. When Amy asks about Liam Karma is uncharacteristically silent. It doesn’t really get Amy’s hopes up, but it doesn’t diminish them either. They promise they’ll see each other at school the next day and right before they hang up Karma says, “I love you. You know that, right?”

“I know.” says Amy, even though she still doesn’t feel like she knows anything.

Much later, Amy finds herself puttering around the kitchen, idly opening the refrigerator and poking through its contents. She doesn’t see anything she wants so she settles for a glass of orange juice. She’s still there, leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from her glass, when Lauren comes in. She looks flushed and her clothes are rumpled. Amy can see Tommy’s truck pulling out of the driveway. 

Bruce, Amy’s soon to be step-father, comes down the stairs.

“Hey honey, did you have fun at Lisbeth’s?” he asks.

“Yeah it was great,” Lauren chirps, regaining her composure in an instant, “I think Lisbeth is really starting to get the hang of algebraic equations.”

He hums approvingly, “Well with your help I’m sure she’ll get it in no time.”

“Thanks Daddy.” Lauren says sweetly. He grabs the newspaper he left on the coffee table and heads back upstairs. 

Amy feels herself staring at Lauren. At her still slightly red cheeks, her baby doll dress, her ramrod straight back.

“What?” Lauren snaps, and Amy almost drops her glass, startled.

“Nothing!” she says, then, as an afterthought, “You’re a really good liar.”

It isn’t accusatory, and Lauren seems to recognize that because she doesn’t bite back or pick a fight. She just says, “I have to be,” and waltzes up the stairs.

Amy watches her go. It hits her how little she knows about Lauren. She has the facts; mother died when she was thirteen, above average student, image and popularity obsessed, hateful little she beast... Amy is convinced that as soon as their parents are married Lauren will become her mom’s favorite daughter. Unlike Amy, Lauren is pretty and perfect. She cares about clothes and presentation. All of the things Farrah wishes Amy could be, Lauren already is. Amy really does hate her, but there is a small part of her that admires Lauren as well. Admires her toughness. As pretty as Lauren is, she also seems to be made of steel. While Amy feels like she is crumbling, Lauren just soldiers on.

She finishes her juice and leaves the glass in the sink. Tomorrow she will see Karma and she won't crumble. Maybe she’ll even tell Karma the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Amy resolves to be a little nicer to people. Not Lauren specifically, but people in general. Just general niceness."

Karma is waiting for her outside of school in the morning. She greets Amy with a tight hug.

“I really missed you.” She whispers. 

Amy feels her world right itself. It’s disorienting because she didn’t realize just how off kilter she felt until she was wrapped in Karma’s arms and suddenly her feet were back on solid ground. They walk to class holding hands. Karma grins at Amy and Amy feels absolutely at peace. Then as they split to go their separate ways Karma drops Amy’s hand and pecks her softly on the lips before spinning around and heading to her classroom and everything comes rushing back - the uncertainty, the fear, the mangled hope - and Amy feels even more unsteady than before.

They have lunch together, but soon Amy and Karma time is interrupted as they are joined first by Shane, then Liam, then Ivy. Shane keeps shooting Amy pointed looks as Karma plays with their interlaced fingers. Liam keeps his expression neutral, but Amy catches him glancing at Karma with hungry eyes. Ivy’s phone buzzes. She pulls a face.

“Did you see this?” she asks them passing the phone around, “I can’t believe any self respecting person would actually do this.”

It’s a picture of Lauren, naked except for a men’s jacket wrapped around her torso, shoulders and legs bare, looking up into the camera. She looks --

“She looks hot,” says Liam, passing the phone back to Ivy.

She does, but it’s more than that. She looks soft. Beautiful, but in a way that's less rigid. Amy isn’t really sure how to describe it, so she doesn’t try.

“I can’t believe she sent a picture of herself like that,” Karma says, “Doesn’t she know these things get sent around?”

“Duh! That’s why she did it.” says Shane.

Ivy looks at the picture critically. “It’s actually not that bad,” she admits. “Do you think Tommy took it? That would make him a lot more artistic than I ever gave him credit for.”

Shane scoffs. “That boy? Please. He doesn’t have an artistic bone in his body. I took it.”

“What?” Amy practically gasps.

“See it’s my jacket.” Shane says pointing helpfully to the paisley jacket just barely covering Lauren’s breasts, “I took it when I was hanging out at your house waiting for you to come back from your,” he glances at Karma, “trip to get us take out.” he finishes lamely. 

Karma looks between Amy and Shane in confusion. Liam just raises an eyebrow.

Thankfully Ivy wants to know what filter Shane used and the conversation turns towards photography and whether or not a selfies should be considered legitimate photos. Karma however, keeps her attention on Amy. 

“You and Shane were hanging out?” she asks quietly.

Amy shrugs, “Yeah, a little bit when we weren’t talking.” 

“I thought you weren’t really into spending time with the popular kids without me,” Karma says, her voice low so that their table-mates won’t hear.

“If you get to hang out with Liam, then I get to hang out with Shane.” Amy says, refusing to meet Karma’s eyes.

Karma proposes a girls weekend. No Liam. No lesbians. Just them. Amy thinks if there are supposed to be no lesbians it’s possible she won’t be able to come. Soon it ends up that she won’t be able to come anyway. Sniping at Lauren about her mother’s bridal shower becomes being volunteered to take a trip to Dallas to pick up something Amy can’t even pronounce. Farrah tells her that Karma can come along too, but Karma quickly counters that just having Lauren there ruins girls weekend anyway and they should just do it another time. Either way they can hang out on Sunday, right? Amy suspects that as much as Karma does not want to spend time with Lauren, it is more probable that she got a better offer for her Saturday. Possibly from Liam Booker. 

That’s how she ends up alone with Lauren on a “bonding” trip that has her staring out of the passenger’s side window as Lauren drives, mentally counting every minute of the three hour drive to Dallas. 

They don’t talk. Amy thinks they have probably both vowed not to bond out of spite, and the best way to do that is to avoid all possible interaction. Lauren plays with the radio, but can’t settle on a station. Eventually she just turns it off and the only sound is the whir of the air conditioner. 

It feels much longer than three hours by the time finally arrive in Dallas. They both go into the bakery and Lauren pays for some kind of pastry in a tall box. Amy buys two cronuts. Lauren sniffs at her disapprovingly. Amy wants to tell her that one person buying fancy pastry does not get to judge another person buying fancy pastry, but she lets it go. 

About an hour out of Dallas they hit traffic. For some reason on this random stretch of road in the middle of Texas about 300 cars are sitting at a standstill. Their engine idles and Lauren clenches her hands tightly around the steering wheel as if by sheer force of will she will make the cars in front of them start moving. Amy eats her cronut. It’s delicious. Lauren gives her a dirty look and she realizes that she’s making some kind of happy moaning noise. Whatever, she’s not going to let Lauren ruin food for her. 

Theoretically the second cronut is for Karma. Amy thought if this trip messed up girls weekend then they both should get something out of it. Now she looks down into the box and sees that the sun shining brightly though the windshield has started melting the icing. Pretty soon the desert will be nothing but a mess. Amy watches Lauren clenching and relaxing her hands around the steering wheel. Even after hours of driving she sits so straight she looks like she has a metal rod instead of a spine. After deliberating for a moment Amy reaches over and wordlessly offers her the remaining cronut.

Lauren looks at Amy suspiciously. Amy keeps her face neutral, just as she’s about to give up Lauren snatches the pastry from the box. Something about it makes Amy smile and she turns away so that Lauren won’t see. When she looks back Lauren is taking her last bites of the pastry. The corners of her mouth turn up as she chews. When she finishes she looks at her sugar coated fingers for a second like they pose a problem she can’t quite solve. Amy hands her a napkin and Lauren looks almost grateful before she remembers who she’s in a car with and goes back to her default expression of pinched dislike. 

It’s another ten minutes before it occurs to Amy that if the cronuts were melting it’s entirely possible that the bridal shower pastry is not far behind. 

“Hey,” Amy says, her voice shattering the silence that has hung between them all day, “Should we be worried about that thing melting?”

Lauren looks at the tall box in the back seat. 

“Fuck,” she says. Then repeats, “Fuck.”

“There’s an exit up there,” Amy points about a half a mile up the road, “maybe we can pull off and, I don’t know, get ice or something?”

Lauren agrees and after a very tense eight minutes of creeping up the road they turn off into an exit for buttfuck nowhere Texas. 

It’s not too hard to locate a gas station with a convenience store that has ice. As an added bonus they also have disposable styrofoam coolers. After Lauren tops off the car’s supply of gas she holds the pastry box steady as Amy gets it inside of a plastic bag to protect it from the water, lowers it into the cooler, and packs two small bags of ice around it. When they’re done it looks a little haphazard, but they both feel confident the pastry will stay cool and dry. Lauren hops back into the driver’s seat and Amy slouches on the passenger’s side. 

They get back on the highway and finally traffic seems to be moving. They both breathe a sigh of relief.

“I think we might actually get home without this thing getting completely destroyed.” Lauren muses. 

Amy’s not sure if Lauren is actually talking to her or not, but she decides to answer anyway because she's kind of tired of being quiet.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, “You don’t even like my mom.”

Lauren rolls her eyes, “I like her.”

“Last week you called her a ‘trashy weathergirl’.” Amy points out.

“She is a weathergirl.” Lauren replies rolling her eyes again - Amy wants to tell her that her face will stick like that if she’s not careful - then after a moment, “But she’s not trashy. Not really.”

Amy stares at her. Not trashy is the nicest thing she has ever heard Lauren say about her mother. 

Lauren glances at Amy and lets out an exasperated sigh, “Look, your mom is really nice. I know that. She makes my dad happy and it’s been a long time since he’s been happy. I want them to have a nice wedding, I’m not a complete asshole.”

Amy snorts, “Sure, you’re just a dick to me and my dyke girlfriend.”

“I don’t hate you because you’re a lesbian or a fake-bian or whatever fuckwit. I hate you because you’re a bitch. My dad moved us five towns away to be with your mom. I lost my house, my friends, my dance studio… I had a whole life that was over, just like that, because of your mom. I can’t even…” She trails off, and Amy notices that her eyes are moist like she’s holding back tears. “We used to be within walking distance of the cemetery. I used to be able to visit my mom and talk to her…” Lauren wipes her eyes, “and then I moved here and I was a fucking outcast in your hippy high school, I had to move into a tiny room, and you were there with your little BFF from kindergarten acting like I’d ruined your life.”

Amy is stunned. She doesn’t know what to say. She can't take her eyes off of Lauren, who is still fighting back tears. She wonders how long Lauren’s been waiting to say that. She opens her mouth to say… something... and then snaps it shut. Finally she just goes back to looking out of her window. There are a few sniffs from Lauren’s side of the car but soon she is back to looking like nothing happened at all. They ride in silence the rest of the way home.

Farrah is delighted with the croquembouche. She thanks them both profusely and Lauren soaks up the praise like a sponge. Amy watches out of the side of her eye as she snaps back in planning mode, conferring with Farrah about napkin options. There’s no trace of the emotion she displayed back in the car. Amy asks if there is anything she can do to help, but they shoo her off. She ends up going back to her room. She thinks about calling Karma. If she calls Karma, Karma will ask about her trip with Lauren and she’s not sure what to say about that yet. Instead she sends Karma a text telling her that she’ll call in the morning. As she drifts off to sleep, Amy resolves to be a little nicer to people. Not Lauren specifically, but people in general. Just general niceness. 

Her new resolution is put to the test almost immediately. There are two dozen chatty women drinking cocktails in her kitchen and at her mother’s insistence she is wearing a dress. While she's doing her best not to stab people with a shrimp fork, Lauren is in her element ordering around the catering staff and keeping a drink in everyone’s hand. With her white and blue dress and her clean swept up-do Lauren looks more like a porcelain doll than ever. Amy does her best to stay out of the way. 

Karma finally shows up, and Amy practically runs out of the house to meet her in the driveway. 

“Thank god you’re here,” Amy sighs, pulling Karma into a tight hug that almost manages to make everything that’s wrong with her day right. When they break apart Karma looks her up and down with a little laugh. 

“You look like a five year old playing dress up.” she say. 

Amy shifts awkwardly in her dress. Karma smiles a little wider and raises her hand to cup Amy’s cheek. “You’re adorable.”

Amy does her best not to melt right there. Instead she lets Karma lead her back inside. After a brief hello to Farrah and some serious side eye from Lauren they head up to Amy’s room.

Karma flops on Amy’s bed. She props herself up on her elbows then reaches her hand out towards Amy with a playful smile and wiggles her fingers. Amy rolls her eyes, but within seconds she’s given in and is reaching for those fingers with her own. Karma swings their joined hands back and forth for a minute before tugging Amy closer, pulling her onto the bed. Karma settles Amy almost on top of her with her head resting against Karma’s stomach. Amy feels Karma breathe underneath her. She hums a little when Karma starts playing with her hair, combing her fingers through at the scalp and at the nape of her neck. This isn’t new, the comfort they take in being together. They’ve been sleeping together and cuddling up in Amy’s bed since they were five years old. This feels different though. More languid. Amy swears she has never felt more content than in this moment, so of course something has to screw it up.

The something is a text from Shane. It says “Have you told Karma yet?” followed by a smiley face, a frowny face, and five question marks. That in itself wouldn’t have been a problem except that Karma was the one that picked up her phone, just as she's checked Amy’s phone a thousand times in the past. 

“Told me what?” Karma asks, passing the phone to Amy. 

Amy has a momentary panic. She’s not ready. She’s not prepared. More importantly she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to ruin the first good day she’s had with Karma in two weeks with her capital F Feelings. 

“Nothing,” Amy says passing the phone back to Karma, “Shane just wants to know if we’re coming to his party next weekend.”

“Awesome,” Karma says, a self satisfied smile on her face at finally being popular, “I’ll just text him back that we’re coming.”

Amy watches Karma scroll through her phone with that little smile on her face, glad that she’s happy. Her high school experience is finally what she always wanted and it seems like it’s living up to her expectations after all. Karma is getting what she wants and Amy wants her to have what she wants. Maybe it’s that simple. 

Karma’s smile falters. 

“Who is this?” She asks holding the phone towards Amy. 

Amy freezes. It’s her contact list, now displaying the name and number of the girl Amy had gone on a date with. Before they left the coffee shop she had entered her phone number into Amy’s contacts with a little winking face next to it. 

“Just in case you want to give this another shot,” she’d said with a real live wink to accompany the emoticon.

Amy hadn’t deleted the number from her phone. She’d looked at it and thought about getting rid of it, but there it was still in her contacts. Staring at the screen Amy realizes she kept the number because she thought she might want to use it. Then, like the sun suddenly breaking out from behind the clouds, something breaks free in Amy’s mind. It turns out looking at that little winky face on her phone did what hitting on and kissing other girls (and boys) had not. Maybe because those actions had been fueled by panic, while keeping this phone number had been the result of actual interest. Amy vaguely hears Karma say something but she’s not paying attention, still transfixed by the little screen until --

“Ow!” Amy says rubbing her arm where Karma just pinched her.

“Dude you just zoned out on me,” Karma says, “You okay?”

Amy looks up at Karma and knows, unequivocally, that she is not okay.

 

Karma is pressing a hand against Amy’s forehead and Amy is freaking out. She’s not freaking out because she’s possibly, probably, definitely gay. She’s freaking out because she’s about to tell her best friend in the world, whose bed she sleeps over in, who she’s seen practically naked, who she is currently fake dating, that she’s possibly, probably, definitely gay. 

“You don’t have a fever,” Karma says, frowning and taking her hand away from Amy’s forehead.

Still freaking out, Amy barely notices that she’s lost Karma’s touch. Her mind is frantically flipping through old crushes looking for confirming evidence. There was Josh Hoyt in the fourth grade, and the lifeguard at the pool last summer... She remembers really liking Josh’s clothes. At the time he had been coming to school in distressed jeans and chunky leather wristbands and Amy’s mom had still been forcing her to wear dresses almost every day. By the sixth grade Josh’s style had moved back in time to the 50s with a wardrobe made up of button up shirts, sweater vests, and penny loafers. Amy had lost interest. That summer she had stood up to her mom and was finally allowed to dress herself for school. Karma had helped her pick out a few pairs of beat up jeans and food themed t-shirts from the thrift store downtown. 

The lifeguard had been more recent. She’d spent the last summer at the local pool watching Kyle Marksman, a recently graduated senior, as he surveyed the world through his mirrored aviators. He was tan and beautiful and nice to children. When he wasn’t working he would do flips off the diving board to the delight of little kids and teenaged girls alike. Kyle had a serious girlfriend that he'd been dating for four years who was just as beautiful as he was. Suddenly Amy remembers something Shane had said that night in her bedroom. Something about pining after the most unavailable person as an act of over compensation… 

After Kyle it was just Karma really. Except for that thing with Oliver. She’d liked Oliver a lot but when she’d kissed him…

“I lost Oliver’s crane,” Amy murmurs to herself. “I lost the crane like five minutes after he gave it to me.”

“What?” Karma asks, now looking deeply concerned. “Are you feeling okay?”

Amy stands abruptly just as Karma reaches for her. Karma makes a face that is both baffled and a little bit scared. She has no idea what’s wrong and Amy know that she’s upsetting her, but right this second she’s realizing that this is all real. Being a Karmasexual was something specific and made up, something she could push aside if she wanted to. Most of the time it didn’t feel real, like maybe she was imagining the way her heart fluttered when Karma held her hand, like the next time she saw Karma maybe everything would be normal again. By comparison being gay was a vast ocean, and she didn’t have a boat, or a paddle, or a compass, or any other nautical themed accessories. 

“Amy!” Karma says her name like a command.

“What?” Amy asks, finally snapping back to reality. 

“What the hell is going on?”

Amy has no idea what to say so she just ends up blurting it out. “We have to stop.”

“Stop what?” Karma asks. 

It’s not fair how beautiful she looks, sitting on the edge of Amy’s bed in her second best dress with her hair slightly mussed from lying down.

“I can’t fake date you any more.” Amy says clenching her eyes tightly shut. When she opens them Karma is looking at her with a combination of puzzlement and hurt. There is still a part of Amy that hopes Karma will just take her at her word. That she’ll just say, 'okay let’s fake break up,' and leave it at that. She knows better though. Karma isn’t the kind of person to let something like this go.

She doesn’t. Instead she looks up at Amy with her dark liquid eyes and asks, “Why?” 

This is the moment of truth. The moment Amy has been avoiding since that first kiss in the gymnasium in the falling confetti.

“I’m not… I’m not faking it.” Amy says quietly.

For a moment the whole world goes completely silent. Amy can’t hear the ladies drinking downstairs, or Lauren barking orders. She doesn’t even breathe. She’s waiting for something, anything, for some reaction from Karma. Karma, bless her, just looks confused.

“What do you mean?” she asks. She has the same face as she does when she’s struggling to understand some particularly hard homework question and she needs Amy to explain it to her. 

Amy feels frustration build up in her chest. Karma is a smart girl, of all the times for her to be dense why does it have to be now? But this is what they do for each other. When one of them doesn’t understand the other one explains. That’s how they’ve gotten almost identical grades in every class they’ve been in together since the first grade.

“I’m gay.”

The words hang over them. Karma’s confusion fades into an expression that Amy can’t read.

“You’re gay.”

It’s not a question, just a repetition of a fact. Amy scrambles.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but for a while I wasn’t sure and then I didn’t want to freak you out.”

The words come out in a frantic jumble. At this moment Amy realizes the dress her mother picked out is the single itchiest garment on the planet. She tugs uncomfortably at the collar as she waits for Karma to say something.

“How long have you been gay? I mean when did you know?” Karma’s face is still unreadable, but at least it’s not angry. Amy would know if she was angry.

“Kind of when I kissed you that first time. Kind of right now,” Amy says.

Realization dawns on Karma’s face.

“Does that mean you are into me? Like not in a fake way?” she asks. 

Amy feels tears burning at the edges of her eyes. This is what ruins friendships. This is what turns you into people who just say hi in the grocery store. But she’s gone to far now to do anything but tell the whole truth.

“A little?” she says and then takes a deep breath, “Kind of a lot? But you’re my best friend. You are so important to me and I don’t want us to be weird or to screw up our friendship.”

She’s full blown crying now. The tears blur her vision so she can’t really see Karma, but she hears her say, “Amy,” in a voice that sounds tight with emotion. She feels Karma wrap her arms around her. Amy cries into Karma’s shoulder. Karma holds her tight, running her hand up and down Amy’s back in a soothing motion. When she finally has a handle on herself Amy pulls back and sees tears in Karma’s eyes too.

“It’s okay,” Karma says, squeezing Amy’s shoulder for emphasis. She tries to smile, “This is kind of a lot for me to process. I think I need to go home for a bit. Are you going to be okay?”

Amy nods. Her chest aches. She wants to lie down and turn off the lights. Karma walks to the door. At the last second she turns back to Amy, her face determined.

“I love you. I need you to know that. Nothing you just said changes that at all.” Karma says emphatically.

Amy nods again awkwardly. Karma leaves closing the door behind her. Amy feels herself start to shake, whether from relief or fear she doesn't know. She manages to crawl back onto her bed and just waits it out. She is exhausted physically and emotionally, but for better or for worse it’s done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lauren does her best to cover the evidence of Amy’s tears with the concealer. Amy lets her.

It’s Lauren that finds her. Amy is curled up on her bed when the door bangs open and Lauren, still holding her clipboard yells, “Come on lesbos it’s time for gifts!”

Amy reluctantly sits up. Lauren takes in the darkened room, the hopelessly wrinkled dress, and Amy’s red-rimmed eyes with something akin to horror.

“I’ll be down in a minute, okay?” Amy sighs, trying to smooth some of the wrinkles out of her skirt.

“Not looking like that you won’t!” Lauren says vehemently, “There will be pictures! You can’t look like something a cat threw-up in your mother’s bridal shower pictures!”

Amy thinks she must be really be out of it because she doesn’t even have the energy to respond. Instead she watches as Lauren walks across her room and starts tearing through her closet. She makes herself focus on the sound of cloth rustling, hangers scraping, and Lauren muttering something ominous about t-shirts. She still feels lightheaded, but also strangely hollow. It feels like she cried until she there was nothing left, and now she’s just an empty shell. 

She is brought abruptly back to reality when something smacks her directly in the face. There is just enough time for her to see it’s a pair of dark, almost black, skinny jeans before she hit full in the face again, this time by a bright green top. The top is followed in quick succession by a jacket (which Amy actually catches) and a belt (which is mercifully handed to her).

“Put those on,” Lauren orders.

Amy looks at the clothes and then at Lauren whose foot is tapping impatiently.

“Come on!” she says exasperated with Amy’s sluggishness.

Next thing Amy knows she is being hauled off of the bed by the arm. Lauren brusquely turns her around and unzips the back of her dress. 

“There,” she says, “I will be back in two minutes with supplies. If you are not changed by then I swear to god I will dress you myself.”

With that Lauren stomps into their shared bathroom and shuts the door. Amy stays frozen for a second staring dumbly at the clothes. She doesn’t doubt that if she is not wearing whatever Lauren picked out in 97 seconds and counting Lauren will actually make good on her threat and strip and dress her by force. She also doesn’t doubt that Lauren could do it because Lauren is surprisingly strong and freakishly determined. With that in mind Amy snaps into action.

Amy is in the act of slipping on the jacket Lauren picked out when she returns carrying a heavy looking bag and a pair of gold flats. Amy still has the belt in her hands. She holds it out to Lauren like she’s afraid it might bite.

“I wasn’t sure where this was supposed to go.” Amy says, holding it up.

“Just give it to me.” Lauren mutters tossing the bag on the bed.

She takes the belt, gestures for Amy to raise her arms, and reaches under Amy’s jacket to loop the belt around her waist. 

It’s funny, Amy knows that Lauren is short but sometimes she forgets just how small she really is. Even in her low heels the top of Lauren’s head only comes to just under Amy’s nose. Amy wonders if the height difference gives Tommy neck problems. He must have to bend almost in half to kiss her. Amy gets a whiff of vanilla as Lauren cinches the belt snugly over her shirt. She puts the scent together with the vanilla/almond/honey shampoo that has invaded her shower. It smells nothing like Karma’s organic tea tree shampoo but it reminds her of Karma anyway. Everything reminds her of Karma these days, and being reminded of Karma right now makes her want to crawl right back into bed.

When she’s done with the belt Lauren reaches up and grabs Amy’s face. Amy jerks away at the suddenness of it. For her part Lauren just treats Amy like a shying horse, holding onto her jaw and clicking disapprovingly while tilting her face back and forth. When Lauren lets go she gestures for Amy to sit down. Bemused, Amy does and Lauren unzips the bag she’d brought in. The whole thing unfolds into compartments carrying different kinds of make up. It’s like a Lauren utility kit.

Lauren moves efficiently through the compartments pulling out concealer, eyeliner, and lipstick. At the eye shadow she weighs two options, and, judging one superior, throws the other back into the bag. In no time at all she’s blotting concealer onto a little foam wedge and pushing it towards Amy’s face.

Amy must have started unconsciously shying away because Lauren’s hand clamps down on her knee to keep her from moving.

“Stay still.” she growls, dabbing the wedge under Amy's eyes.

Lauren does her best to cover the evidence of Amy’s tears with the concealer. Amy lets her. But when she uncaps the eyeliner and orders Amy to close her eyes Amy balks. Why is she letting Lauren do this? She would usually never let Lauren near her, let alone allow Lauren to approach her eyes with a pointed object. In fact, most days Amy tries to avoid make up all together, caving only when Karma asks if she can apply it. The whole situation feels awkward and wrong. 

“Is this really necessary? Amy asks squirming under Lauren’s touch.

Lauren ignores her, focused on the task at hand. She brings the eyeliner pencil to Amy’s lower eyelid. Just as the pencil makes contact Amy jerks away, leaving a brown smudge down one cheek. Lauren curses and grabs a tissue. Amy dodges away as Lauren tries to rub it against her cheek.

“I think we should just leave it at concealer!” Amy yelps.

Lauren snorts, “Well I think you should shut up and let me fix this mess.”

She grabs Amy by the chin and holds her face still, rubbing off the misplaced eyeliner. “If we leave it like this you will look like a washed out nothing with puffy red demon eyes and you will ruin every one of your mother’s pictures.”

Leave it to Lauren to play on her mom guilt. Even though Amy wants nothing more than to tell Lauren and her make up to fuck off she reigns herself in. Things are bad enough with her mother and she really does want her to have a beautiful shower. If that means wearing a little bit of make up for a few hours it’s really not that much of a sacrifice. It might even help her mom see that she’s still a girl, not some kind of alien creature. Since she found out her daughter is a lesbian homecoming queen she has been acting like she gave birth to ET or something. Still, Amy can’t resist one last dig at Lauren to make herself feel better for giving in.

“This is stupid. I don’t get why people cake their faces with this stuff,” she says petulantly.

Amy can practically hear Lauren grinding her teeth in frustration.

“Makeup is just a tool numbskull.” 

Lauren holds the eyeliner in front of Amy’s eyes until Amy closes them. Amy feels her gently poking and prodding through her closed lids. Gradually she realizes Lauren is still talking. 

“-like you’re ignorant for the sake of being ignorant. All high and mighty because you don’t put any effort into how you look. It’s no wonder you always look like you got dressed in the dark. It would take 30 seconds and some brown eyeliner to make your eyes look less puffy, but no you need someone to do it for you. Now I’m wasting my time making sure you have gold eye shadow that matches your belt and your shoes, making you look like you have some kind of style.”

Lauren steps away and Amy can hear her rustling in her bag. She cracks her eyes open. Lauren turns back to her with a tube of dark red lipstick.

“Here put this on. It’ll balance your eyes.”

She hands Amy the lipstick.

“Now!” Lauren urges, pushing Amy towards the mirror.

Amy puts the lipstick on extra slowly to Lauren’s great frustration. When she’s done she looks at herself in the mirror. She hates to admit it but the whole look is a vast improvement. Not only does the make up hide her puffy cried out face, you would actually never know that this has been one of the most stressful and upsetting days of her life. Even her outfit is particularly on point. All of the clothes are Amy’s, but she’s never worn them in this particular combination before. The top brings out her eyes and the belt emphasizes her small waist and long torso. Lauren sidles up next to her in the mirror and brushes a few stray strands of her own long blonde hair into place.

“You shouldn’t have been in that dress in the first place,” she says offhandedly, “It does something weird to your posture. You slouch. You look much better in pants.”

Amy blinks. She thinks she was just given a compliment but she can’t be sure. Before she can even begin to formulate a response Lauren grabs her by the arm and physically pulls her out of her room and down the stairs.

 

The present opening takes place exactly ten minutes after it was scheduled to. They start with the gifts from Amy and Lauren. A photographer swoops in to get pictures of Farrah opening each gift and hugging the two girls. Afterwards Lauren tries to compensate for the delay by urging Farrah to hurry it along after each present is unwrapped. It’s like watching a spring get wound tighter and tighter. Farrah starts getting flustered at the constant reminders that she needs to go faster. When she drops a gift after trying to shuck it of its wrapping paper in record time Amy steps in.

This time Amy is the one who grabs Lauren by the arm. She pulls her away from the party guests, deftly snatching the clipboard from her grasp.

“What…?” Lauren sputters outraged.

“You need to chill out.” Amy instructs. “Let the woman enjoy her shower. Have some croquenbouche. You drove 6 hours to get the damn thing you might as well enjoy it.”

“But…”

“Look,” Amy says turning Lauren to face Farrah, “No one cares if you are a little off schedule. Mom is having a really good time. That’s because of you. Now stop acting like you have a hot poker shoved up your ass and let her have fun.”

She keeps holding on to Lauren until she stops actively trying to grab back the clipboard. After she lets go Lauren alternates between glaring at her, checking her watch, and anxiously watching Farrah ooh and ahhh over each new gift. When Farrah has opened the last present Amy hands back the clipboard. 

“There, go tell them to have desert or whatever.” Amy says.

Lauren is off like a shot shepherding the ladies towards the croquenbouche. Farrah lags behind placing the gifts in an arrangement on the table. She smiles when Amy approaches her.

“Well now, what happened to your dress?” 

“It got some dirt on it,” Amy says, “Lauren helped me pick something else out.”

Farrah practically beams. “I’m so glad you girls are getting along!”

Amy shrugs, “Yeah well, I guess we should start if we’re all going to be doing this wedding stuff together.”

“Wedding stuff?” Farrah asks confused.

“I don’t know, tasting cake? Picking out bridesmaids dresses? Does the maid of honor wear the same dress as the bridesmaids? Maybe you and I could look for that one together."

Farrah’s smile freezes on her face. 

“Oh honey, I didn’t think you’d be interested in all of that.”

Now it's Amy's turn to be confused. 

“My mother is getting married. Why wouldn’t I be interested?”

“Well I don’t know!” Farrah sounds distressed, “You never liked all of this dress up stuff and you’ve been, you know, busy with Karma.” 

“Busy with Karma” is a euphemism if Amy has ever heard one. It covers a whole range of things Amy knows her mom is desperately avoiding talking about.

“I thought it would be best if I asked Lauren to be my maid of honor. She likes this kind of thing.” Farrah sighs, “ I thought I was doing you a favor.” 

Amy feels a white hot rage blossom through her body, so different from the fearful uncertainty that dominated her not an hour ago. Her teeth clench. 

“So you’ve already asked her?” she asks, voice tight.

“Just before the party,” says Farrah, “But if you really want to be maid of honor maybe you girls could share the title?”

It’s like a cosmic bad joke. Every time she thinks her life can’t get worse she finds still lower places to fall. Now after being demoted out of her mother’s own wedding party she is being invited back in out of pity. Amy wants to stomp and cry and throw the stupid tower of pastry off the table. She wants to shake her mother until she sees that her real daughter is still here standing in front of her. 

Instead she says, “No. That’s okay,” and makes a beeline for the front door. 

“Amy.” Her mother says plaintively.

She pauses at the door, not because of Farrah’s plea, but because she realizes that with Karma off “processing” she has nowhere to go if she leaves the house. Instead she makes an abrupt about face and heads back towards the stairs practically bowling over Lauren in the process. Something in Lauren’s face tells her that she heard at least half of the conversation. She has the good grace to look a little less pleased than she could. Still blocking her way back to the stairs and the relief of a closed door, Lauren looks like she wants to say something. Amy doesn’t let her. She steps right past her and leaves the party behind.

 

All the guests have gone when Farrah calls up to Amy that her, “Cute little boy-friend is here.” 

Shane is waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey girlfriend. I hear you had one for the books.” He says, his high voice soft with sympathy. 

Amy is overcome with a feeling of relief that someone still cares enough to check up on her. She practically launches herself at Shane for a hug. He holds her tight and rocks her playfully back and forth. When he lets her go he keeps a hold of her hands lacing their fingers together. Stepping back he looks her up and down.

“I like this look! Very chic.”

“Lauren dressed me.” Amy admits.

“Who knew? The girl has taste.” He says it too loud and his voice echoes around the house.

A disembodied, “Bite me!” floats back from the kitchen.

“Did Karma tell you to come?” Amy asks, at once hopeful and apprehensive.

“Actually Lauren texted me.” He says.

“Oh.” Amy says oddly disappointed. Then, “Wait why does Lauren have your number?”

“Anyone who is anyone has my number.” Shane says like it’s obvious.

Amy actually laughs. 

 

She leads him up to her room and they sit across from each other on the bed. She tells him about Karma.

“She said she needed to process things?” he says, “That’s actually a good sign. Processing is, like, what lesbians do.”

His optimism cuts through some of her lingering terror. For the first time all day she allows herself to imagine the possibility of Karma feeling the same way. Of Karma taking her into her arms and kissing her for real. It never occurred to her that this whole thing might end well, and now… now Amy feels a glimmer of hope.

She almost forgets to mention her mother’s choice for maid of honor until she sees there is still a tube of red lipstick on her dresser. Shane gives her a look of pure sympathy.

“It’s not totally unexpected. Sometimes parents freak out a little when their kid doesn’t turn out to be what they planned. It doesn’t mean that she doesn’t love you. She just needs time to adjust. Talk to her. Show her that you are still the same person she’s always loved. Make sure you tell her that you still want to be included. Don't give her room to doubt.”

“I know,” Amy says, “It’s just so much worse because Lauren will be there rubbing it in every second.”

“Maybe not,” Shane says, “I mean, she got me here tonight right? Maybe she’s turning over a less bitchy leaf.”

“I doubt it.” Amy says half-heartedly.

The idea of Lauren actually trying to make her life easier in any way, shape, or form is still utterly foreign.

She lets out a breath and rests her head on Shane’s shoulder. 

“Why is everything so hard?” she says pitiably. 

Shane sighs hugging an arm around her shoulder.

“Honey you are a brave little toaster you know that?”

They sit like that for a while. Shane tells her a wild story about hitting on incestuous twins and dodging the cops with Liam that can’t possibly be true but has her laughing either way. By the time they say goodbye she feels significantly better. Or at least she does before she remembers that tomorrow is Monday, which means school, which means facing Karma for the first time since her confession.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Amy would have thought she was an expert on Karma’s face, but she is absolutely certain she has never seen this expression before."

Mornings have never been Amy’s best time. If she were granted power to change one thing in the world permanently she would make it so that nothing could ever happen before ten am. 

Naturally Amy’s evil soon to be stepsister is a morning person. Lauren is already showered, straightened, dressed, and polished to a high gloss by the time Amy stumbles downstairs in her pajamas. 

She looks Amy up and down wrinkling her nose in distaste, “You look like shit.” 

Amy flips her off. Farrah breezes into the kitchen trailing a small cloud of hairspray fumes. When she sees Amy she pastes a frighteningly large smile on her face. 

Morning honey! Want some breakfast?” she asks brightly.

Amy ignores her. She will have to talk to her mother eventually, but eventually is not now. Right now she is still so angry with her and Lauren that if she opens her mouth she’s pretty sure the only thing that will come out is a high-pitched shriek of frustration. 

Farrah’s smile stretches wider, pulling at her cheeks. It looks painful. Amy has always wondered if someone once told her mom to “grin and bear it” and Farrah interpreted the phrase too literally. Throughout Amy’s childhood uncomfortable situations had always been accompanied by her mother’s glaring smile. Farrah had smiled through picking up empty beer bottles from under the coffee table, explanations of why Amy couldn’t have a puppy, broken plates at Christmas dinner. She’d smiled widest when she’d told Amy that her father had left and that he wasn’t coming back. By then Amy had learned to look past the glint of teeth to see the tears gleaming in her wide fearful eyes.

Her mom had been smiling that large frozen smile a lot since Amy came out of the closet on the local news. Amy thinks it’s meant to be reassuring. It’s not. It never really was. In this case it does nothing to placate Amy’s anger about being dropped from her mother’s wedding party in favor of a pint sized Barbie doll she barely knows.

The Barbie in question grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and slings her bag over her shoulder. “I’m going over to school,” she says, “I want to get at least 45 minutes of rehearsal time in the dance studio before classes start.”

Farrah’s strained fake smile melts into a real one, “That sounds great hon! Your dedication is truly inspiring.”

Amy rolls her eyes so hard she thinks she sprains them. 

Lauren leaves. Amy pulls out a box of cereal and begins slowly shaking it into a bowl. She can feel Farrah’s eyes on her back so she adds the milk even more slowly than the cereal, pouring it at a thin trickle. Awkward silence stretches out between them. Finally Farrah says, “Well I’d better get going!” 

She calls out, “Don’t be late for school!” as the front door clicks closed behind her, leaving Amy alone in the kitchen.

Amy takes her time getting dressed. She doesn’t have any idea what to wear. She tries to remember which of her tops Karma likes. She reaches for her favorite flannel button up, but hesitates with her hand on the hanger. Is the flannel too gay? Not for the first time Amy wishes she had read Karma’s lesbian binder. She’s sure there would have been a handy chapter on which stereotypes to avoid. 

She pulls out one of her more feminine outfits, a ruffled top her mom bought her and a coordinating skirt. She puts it on and looks in the mirror. Lauren’s right, she is standing funny. There is something defensive about her posture in the skirt. She looks like she’s ready to get into a fight. The whole outfit makes her feel like she’s pretending to be someone that she’s not. 

She discards the skirt and blouse and puts on a long sleeve Henley, a comfortable pair of jeans, and a pair of short boots. She leaves her hair down around her shoulders and forgoes putting on makeup. If Karma is going to want her then Karma should want the real her. There is no point in misrepresentation.

By the time she’s ready to go there is no question that she going to be late for school. Hester High is a fifteen minute walk from her house and, according to the clock on her dresser, classes started five minutes ago. Amy contemplates not going at all. She could just skip everything from her chem test to her inevitable awkward interactions with Karma, or at least create a delay. Her mom is already at work and Lauren is already at school. As long as the attendance office calls the house instead of her mom’s cell no one would even know if she just stayed home. 

Someone clears their throat from just outside the bedroom. Amy jumps about a foot in the air. Bruce, Lauren's dad, hovers in her doorway dressed for work and dangling car keys from his hand.

“Can I give you a ride to school? “ he asks, although it’s less of a question and more of a command.

“Sure,” Amy says, trying to sound as if she wasn’t just thinking about cutting her classes and marathoning Property Brothers all day, and instead like Bruce’s offer is a stroke of unexpected good luck. 

Bruce nods, “I’ll meet you at the car.”

 

Amy finds Bruce waiting for her behind the wheel of his 2006 BMW. It’s strange to be sharing such a small space with him without her mother or Lauren there as well. Amy tries to remember if she’s ever actually been alone with him.

So far Amy hasn’t spent a lot of time with her stepfather-to-be. Her honest evaluation of him, formed the day her mom first brought him home to meet her, is that he’s bland. Butter on pasta bland. Walking Ken-doll bland. Bruce met Amy’s mom on Christian Mingle (where Christians go to find other Christians to procreate with and make more Christians), something that has always made Amy vaguely uncomfortable. Nothing against Christians finding their own people, but the mixture of religion and online dating feels a little unholy. Then again the bible does say to be fruitful and multiply. She guesses they can do that digitally.

They drive is quiet. Bruce has the radio tuned to a news station, but the volume is turned down so all Amy can hear is a low burbling of voices. Amy zones out watching the trees glide past the window.

“-golf?” says Bruce.

“What?” asks Amy, startled whipping her head around.

“How do you feel about golf?” Bruce asks again. 

Amy eyes him warily. “Uh, I can’t say I have a golf opinion,” she says, “but I think we had a rally at school about how golf courses are an irresponsible use of our water resources.”

Bruce gives a low whistle, “Your school sure has a lot of rallies.” 

Amy chuckles, “Yeah that one was particularly stupid. I think someone actually tried to set a bunch of golf clubs on fire and ended up burning the skin off their hand instead.”

“So you’re not protesting golf?”

“What? No!” Amy exclaims, “Golf is… whatever, it’s fine.”

“Good,” says Bruce. He sneaks a glance at her out of the corner of his eyes, “I have a tee time today at 3:30. I thought maybe you might like to come with me.”

Amy looks at him, stunned. She says the first thing that pops into her head, “Are you asking me because I’m a lesbian now?”

Bruce almost misses a stop sign. He slams the brakes and Amy jolts forward in her seat. “What?” 

“Like because I like girls you are going to treat me like a boy?” Amy continues, “Isn’t golf, like, a male bonding thing?”

“Lots of women golf,” Bruce says, mystified.

“Oh.”

A car honks behind them. Bruce checks his mirror. There is a short line of cars waiting for them to continue through the stop sign. Bruce takes his foot off the brake. They take the next turn into the school parking lot. Bruce pulls up in front of the building and puts the car in park. He turns to Amy, looking her in the eyes.

“I didn’t mean to imply anything,” he says seriously, “Your mother and Lauren have been spending so much time together recently, I realized that you and I haven’t had the same opportunity. So-“

“I don’t know how,” Amy interrupts, “I mean I’ve never played golf.”

“I’ll teach you,” Bruce says, still holding her gaze with his own. “You can bring your girlfriend if you want. I can teach her too.”

Amy winces at the idea. “That’s okay. Karma is the worst at sports. She once knocked herself out with her own tennis racquet. It’s for the best that she is never introduced to golf clubs.”

Bruce laughs. It does something to his face. For a second he loses that bland Ken-doll veneer. 

“My wife was like that. I met her when she spiked a volleyball point blank into my face senior year of high school. I wasn’t even playing.” He sighs, “To this day I have no idea why I found that so attractive.” 

“Yeah,” Amy agrees absently, thinking about Karma and how she’s perfect and completely imperfect at the same time. Karma could probably smack her in the face with sporting equipment too and Amy would still find it adorable.

Bruce is still sort of smiling focused on some distant memory. He catches Amy’s eye and flushes with embarrassment. Amy’s not sure why. Maybe because this is the first time she’s ever heard him mention his first wife in this kind of casual context. Amy spares him any further discomfort by getting out of the car. She stands with one hand on the open car door, poised to shut it, but instead she finds herself saying, “Tee time is 3:30?”

Bruce nods, “3:30.”

“What do I wear?”

“You’re fine in that,” Bruce says. Amy can hear relief in his voice. “I’ll pick you up after school?”

“Okay.” 

Amy shuts the car door. Bruce gives her a tentative wave as he drives away.

 

She’s late for first period, but only by ten minutes as opposed to twenty-five. She tries to slide quietly into the classroom without disruption. Her teacher raises an eyebrow at her, but continues with her lecture on The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail. Amy settles into her desk at the back of the room. Karma isn’t in her first class. If she was Amy would have to sit closer to the front because Karma thinks sitting in the back makes the teacher think you’re not trying hard enough.

Amy makes it through three more Karma free periods before lunch. At one point Amy glimpses her in the hallway, but she steps into a classroom and vanishes before Amy can even say hello.

When lunch period comes Amy feels a familiar dread taking up residence in her chest. She hovers outside the door to the cafeteria and watches as Karma takes a seat at their usual table. She’s steeling herself to go in when Liam sits down in the empty seat beside Karma and strikes up a conversation. Karma laughs at something he says and Amy’s heart sinks. She does an about face leaving the cafeteria behind. Instead she eats out on the bleachers with a few kids from Hester’s intramural hacky-sack team, who are too focused on practicing some kind of kick move to pay her any attention.

She is on her way to her sixth period class when she is suddenly, violently, pulled into a utility closet. She stumbles head first into a bucket of mops.

“What the fuck!” she gasps, struggling to untangle herself from the janitorial equipment.

“You’re avoiding me again.”

Amy removes herself from the mops and finds herself face to face with Karma.

“I’m not!” Amy says, “I was going to find you at lunch but…” she trails off leaving Karma to fill in the blanks.

“We were just talking.” Karma says, gently trying to catch Amy’s eye.

“Yeah well…” Amy says, unsure of where she’s going. Karma is looking at Amy in a way that makes Amy unsure of a lot of things. Her face is soft and open, but also determined. Amy would have thought she was an expert on Karma’s face by now, but she is absolutely certain she has never seen this expression before. She finds herself drifting towards Karma like an iron filing drawn towards a magnet. Karma catches one of Amy’s hands in her own. And then…

Then Karma is kissing her and it is unlike any kiss they have shared yet. It's slow and exploratory, there are no cheering fans, no cameras, just Karma. Karma, catching Amy’s top lip between her own. Karma, slipping her hands under the hem of Amy’s shirt. Karma, sliding her tongue along Amy’s and letting out a small whimper. 

It's even better than Amy had ever imagined it could be.

Karma starts the kiss and she is the one to end it. She gradually pulls back from Amy, dropping a light peck on her lips. Amy is breathing heavily. She takes in Karma’s slightly swollen lips and it’s all she can do not to launch herself back into Karma’s arms. She grabs onto a storage shelf instead.

“What was that?” she forces herself to ask.

“I don’t know,” Karma says, her eyes crinkle up into what could be considered the perfect smize, “but I liked it. I really like kissing you.”

“What about Liam?” Amy bites out, not wanting to know but unable to stop herself.

Karma sighs, “I like kissing Liam too. I don’t know what that means. I’m attracted to him but with you…” she takes Amy’s hand again, holding the tips of her fingers in her grasp, “I love you. You are the most important person in my life.”

“Maybe it means that you’re allowed to like more than one thing.” Amy says trying to make herself sound calm and supportive. Karma smiles. 

“You think so?”

Amy nods. She thinks about what Karma just told her, that she liked kissing Liam but loved Amy. Shouldn’t love beat like? Could it be that simple? Karma glances down at her watch.

“God we are so late. Can we talk after school today?”

Amy is about to say yes when she remembers, “I can’t, I have golf.”

Karma’s brows crease in confusion and she suddenly feels more like Amy’s best friend since kindergarten than she has in weeks. “Golf?”

“Yeah, Bruce asked me to go. I think he’s trying to bond with me,” says Amy, “I’m trying something new.”

“So am I.” Karma says, leaning forward for one last feather light kiss before disappearing through the utility closet door. Amy is left alone to gape at the door and try to figure out what just happened. She doesn’t make it to sixth period.

 

Amy plays golf. Shockingly she is not that bad at it. They start on the driving range and Amy hits fifteen Liam Bookers half way across the field. After Bruce gives her a few pointers she hits ten more Liam Bookers even further. On the course it’s quiet and relaxing. Bruce lets Amy drive the cart. 

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he says, conspiratorially, “this is my favorite part of golf.”

Amy steps on the accelerator and the cart takes off at surprising speed. She takes a sharp turn making the golf clubs rattle in their cases and Bruce nearly pitches out the side of the cart. He grabs onto a bar between the front seats, laughing as he pulls himself back inside. Amy can't help but join in.

When she putts Amy thinks about Karma. She thinks about the look in Karma’s eyes right before she kissed her. She pictures it in her mind and lets her arms swing evenly down, bringing the putter into contact with the ball. Bruce yells, “Yeah!” as the ball sinks into the hole.

They are waiting for the golfers in front of them to finish with the eighth hole. Bruce is explaining the difference between a driver and a wedge and Amy is actually following along. She’s just about to ask a follow up question about hitting out of the rough when Bruce speaks again in a more serious tone.

“Amy?” Bruce says, his eyes still focused on the golfers in front of them, “I want to tell you how grateful I am that you and your mom are accepting Lauren and I into your family. It’s been really difficult for us since Lauren’s mom died. Lauren especially had a rough time with it. She doesn’t talk about her much, but she and her mom were very close. It means a lot to her to have a mother in her life again.” 

His voice is even but his eyes are moist. He finally looks at Amy, who sits frozen by this unexpected outpouring of emotion.

“Thank you for being so understanding and sharing your mom with her,” he continues, “I know you are a tough independent kid, but it’s still not an easy thing to do.”

He clears his throat and gestures out towards the green. “Looks like they’re clear.”

They clamber out of the cart, grabbing drivers from the back. Bruce doesn’t try to continue the conversation, which gives Amy some time to process it as he lines up his swing. Amy watches the club arc up and then down, slicing the ball cleanly through the air. It’s a great drive, born out of patience and practice. Amy finds her mental image of Bruce adjusting to include this information. Instead of bland she sees the hours of quiet dedication it takes to perfect that kind of skill. She thinks of his patient, but persistent, courtship of her mother, his studied respectfulness of her space. 

They play out the ninth hole and then head home. Amy helps Bruce unload his golf bag from the trunk of the BMW. 

“I was thinking,” he says, closing the trunk with a thump and watching as Amy hoists the bag into its designated corner of the garage, “since Lauren is going to be your mother’s maid of honor maybe you could be my best man.”

Amy almost drops the clubs.

“Well, my best girl really,” he amends sheepishly, “I know you’re a girl.”

Amy doesn’t say anything. She puts down the golf bag. He stands there with his hands in his pockets, unhurried, waiting for Amy’s answer. Amy watches him out of the corner of her eye. She finds herself thinking that there is a lot to admire about this man who stands ready to take whatever answer she wants to give.

“I’ll do it, but I’m not wearing a tie,” she says finally.

Bruce breaks out into a grin. “You really think we’re going to have any choice in what we’re going to wear? With your mother and Lauren planning this wedding?”

Amy slumps at the thought. Bruce just laughs and puts an arm around her shoulder leading her inside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Karma flips them over on her bed, pinning her arms to the mattress, before leaning down and kissing her forcefully."

Once, when Amy was nine and her parents were still together, her dad decided they would go on a family trip to the nearest amusement park. The whole day had been a disaster. It was a holiday weekend so the lines for each ride were doubly long. It didn’t take long for her dad to become frustrated, snapping at the teenagers working the rides about how poorly everything was run. At lunchtime Farrah had gotten food poisoning from one of the concession stands and she spent the latter half of the day sequestered in a dirty bathroom stall. While she was gone neither Amy nor her father remembered to put on suntan lotion and they both left the park with severe bright red sunburns. Amy’s covered so much of her skin that she couldn’t sit or lie down comfortably for two days. Afterwards she spent a week and a half peeling, like a snake shedding its skin. 

Still, packed in among the bad memories of that day there were a few good memories as well. She went on her first rollercoaster that day, clutching the restraints as she hurtled down steep inclines and rocketed through loops. Her dad won a shiny plastic crown with fake sapphires in a shooting game and gave it to her mom who wore it for the rest of the day. Best of all was the Death Drop, a ride that shot you straight up into the air on a pole twenty stories high and then dropped you in a free fall, slowing your descent right before you hit the ground. Amy had begged to go on it. They all stood in line for half an hour before strapping into seats next to each other. Farrah had screamed from the moment the ride took off until the moment they were allowed to unbuckle their seats. Amy, on the other hand, did not scream once. She had loved every second of the Death Drop; the tug of gravity as they shot into the air, the feeling in her stomach as they plummeted towards the ground. As Farrah screamed Amy found herself grinning from ear to ear, and when she had looked over at her Dad she saw that he was grinning too. When the ride was over Farrah swore never to go on it again. Amy and her dad rode it three more times. 

For Amy, the very best part of the Death Drop was the split second between when the acceleration to the top stopped and the fall begun. There was a moment when the little car and all of its passengers just hung in the air suspended and weightless. She went on the ride again and again chasing that moment, trying to really feel it, trying to prolong that combination of exhilaration and stillness. It’s the same feeling that washes over her now as Karma flips them over on her bed, pinning her arms to the mattress, before leaning down and kissing her forcefully.

They are ensconced in Karma’s bedroom with a chair propped under the doorknob to keep Karma’s parents from barging in with green tea and vegan cookies. Amy loves the Ashcrofts, but if they interrupt this moment there’s no telling what she might do. Karma gets her hand under Amy’s shirt and lightly scrapes her nails across her back. Amy groans and fists her fingers in Karma’s hair, making Karma hum with pleasure into their kiss. She’s always liked having her hair played with and this is apparently no exception.

That’s the strangest part of all of this. They’ve had such a physical friendship for so long that in a lot of ways they already know how each other’s bodies work. The kinds of touch they like and dislike. At the same time, being able to touch like this, with this context, makes everything old new again. There are new territories to explore and new reactions to map to go along with the ones she already knows. The mental sketch she has of Karma’s body gaining texture and shading with each new touch. Finally they break apart out of a mutual need for oxygen. Karma hovers over her, brown eyes sparkling, catching her breath.

“I thought you wanted to talk?” Amy gasps. 

“Talking,” Karma says in a low voice, “is overrated.” She cups Amy’s face and comes down for another searing kiss.

 

“- isn’t that right Amy?” 

Amy nods without paying attention. She is sitting at the dinner table with her mom, Lauren, and Bruce but her mind is firmly back in Karma’s bedroom. She is pulled out of her reverie by the sound of utensils clattering loudly against a plate. Lauren seems to have fumbled her knife sending it bouncing off the edge of her plate.

“Sorry, what are we talking about?”

Farrah sighs, “I was just saying that you are going to be Bruce’s best gal in the wedding.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Amy affirms absently. She picks up her fork and pokes at her heretofore completely untouched dinner. Her stomach growls. She is suddenly ravenous. She shovels a forkful of potatoes and green beans into her mouth. “Great dinner Mom.”

“Thanks honey,” Farrah says warily, as if she’s not sure what to do with a daughter who goes from poking at her dinner to inhaling it in a matter of seconds.

Amy hears the clatter of silverware a second time as Lauren dramatically drops her fork in protest.

“She’s going to be what?”

“Well baby, since you are busy being maid of honor I’m going to need someone to help me get ready.” Bruce says with a practiced air of obliviousness, “you know how useless I am with cufflinks.”

“But she’s a girl! A girl can’t be best man!” Lauren sputters.

Bruce nods in agreement, “Of course not. That’s why she’s going to be my best gal.”

Lauren looks close to tearing her hair out. “What about Jerry!” she yelps, “I mean he’s been your best friend forever. Shouldn’t he be your best man?”

“I don’t think Jerry will mind honey.” 

Lauren’s mouth opens and shuts as she searches for other reasons why Amy’s appointment as best man is unacceptable. She looks very much like the fish Amy had when she was in the seventh grade. It’s all sorts of hilarious and Amy has to keep herself from giggling. Finally Lauren gives up, resigning herself shooting Amy dirty looks across the table.

Bruce watches Lauren with amusement before turning to Amy, “Now Amy, as my best gal I have my first task for you.”

Amy raises her eyebrows. When she agreed to the title there had been no talk of tasks.

“I have my tux fitting tomorrow so I have to miss taking Lauren to her dance practice. Can you drive her to practice after school?”

Just like that Amy’s good mood evaporates. Lauren shifts her murderous looks from Amy to her father. Despite the nonchalance with which he asks the question Amy gets the feeling that this is some kind of test and he’s waiting to see how she’ll do.

“Sure,” she says evenly, “No problem.”

Bruce smiles. Lauren pushes herself back from the table, scraping the chair against the floor. She stomps away up the stairs, all the way to her bedroom, then shuts the door with such force that it echoes down the stairs.

“Well that’s all settled then!” Farrah chirps. 

 

 

Amy is starting to wonder if Bruce Cooper lulled her into a false sense of security and is actually very bad man after all. How else could you explain the fact that she is once again stuck in a car with Lauren instead of spending time with Karma? Maybe Lauren and Bruce are in on it together, a father daughter tag team working to make her life suck. Since they left Hester Lauren has been nothing but rude, ungrateful and generally miserable company. If this was supposed to be another attempt to get the two soon-to-be-stepsisters to play nice it’s not working. Sitting ramrod straight in the passenger’s seat wearing her most pinched expression, Lauren has vetoed every music choice and shot down every conversation starter that Amy has tried. It’s actually like they’ve been set up by their parents on the worlds worst date. A date from which there is no escape. 

After fifteen painful minutes Lauren asks, “Why are you doing this? 

"Doing what?" Amy asks, exasperated.

"Being my dad's best man? Pretending you actually care about this wedding?"

“Umm... because your dad asked me to?" Amy replies slowly, like she's talking to a child. Lauren's eyes narrow with dislike.

“Is this some sort of plan to get back at me for being maid of honor? Because it’s not working." 

“Clearly.” Amy smirks.

Lauren huffs and ignores her for the rest of the trip.

There’s an hour and a half before Lauren needs to be picked up so Amy holes up in a nearby coffee shop to wait out the time. She orders the largest coffee she can and works through her homework. She starts with chemistry. Science has always been her best subject; the worksheets assigned take her almost no time at all. After that she knocks out math, history, and her part of a Spanish project where they have to plan a trip to a Spanish speaking country. She fantasizes for a minute about backpacking with Karma across Peru and visiting Inca temples before remembering that Karma completely hates being out in nature without easy access to People magazine. She leaves English for last. She’s never been very good at expressing herself coherently on paper, which is typically what English homework demands. It's not surprising considering how unfortunate she is at expressing herself in life. 

By the time the coffee and the homework are finished Amy still has ten extra minutes to kill before picking Lauren up. Automatically she reaches for her phone and dials the first speed dial. Karma picks up on the second ring.

“Amy?” Karma answers, out of breath.

“Hey,” Amy says, “Would you still be my girlfriend if I stopped using the English language and hired, like, an interpreter that could translate my eye rolls or something?”

“Uh… what?” She sounds distracted.

Amy sighs, “Nothing, I’m just being stupid.” Karma hisses something Amy can’t quite make out and there is a kind of low-voice grumble in response. “Sorry, is this a bad time?”

“No!” Karma exclaims. Amy can hear the nervous tone in her voice that makes her such a bad liar. “Well… I’m with Liam.”

“You’re with Liam?” His name leaves a bad aftertaste in Amy’s mouth.

“He and I just need to discuss a few things.” Karma says helplessly. Amy pictures the kinds of “discussions” Liam and Karma have had in the past. Karma pressed against the wall of the art studio as Liam…

“Right.” Amy says sharply, interrupting her own train of thought.

“I’ll call you later?” Karma asks.

“Whatever,” Amy replies. She hangs up the phone before Karma can say anything else.

By the time she is picking up Lauren, Amy is caught in a massive consuming spiral of doubt. She tries to look at it rationally. All she knows is that Liam and Karma are talking. Just because they have been avoiding Liam at lunch doesn’t mean that they will never interact with him again. They are all friends. Or at least she is friends with Shane who is friends with Liam. And, ok, even without their history of hook ups Karma and Liam could probably be called friends. Karma is going to have to talk to him sometime. Things become murkier when Amy tries to imagine what they are talking about. Maybe Karma is telling him that she can’t be his make-out buddy anymore. Or maybe she has him pinned against a wall with his shirt off. Maybe when she said she wanted Amy she didn’t mean it. Maybe she is declaring her love for Liam right now.

She ends up working herself into such a state that even Lauren notices it. “What the fuck is wrong with you?" she asks, "Did you just realize that those leather wristbands make you look like a tool?”

“Fuck off” Amy retorts. 

Maybe Liam is being transferred to a military academy and Karma is just saying goodbye?

“God Raudenfeld, get your shit together and drive.” Lauren snaps. 

It’s not bad advice. Amy works on the driving part first.

 

When Amy pulls into their driveway Karma is already there, waiting for them on the front steps of the house. Lauren flounces past her without sparing her a glance. Karma looks nervous, twisting her hands in her lap like an anxious three year old. She stands as Amy approaches.

“Hey.” 

Something is definitely wrong. Amy can feel it crackling between them. The paranoia that has held her in it’s grip gaining support from the expression on Karma’s face. Amy chooses not to close the distance between them, instead leaves a few feet keeping herself out of arms reach. “I thought you were going to call.” 

“I was!” Karma asserts, “But then I thought, why bother calling when I can come and see my favorite person in… person…?” she trails off lamely. 

It’s late fall and the early onset of evening has left behind only the dim diffused light of a sun that has already set. It turns Karma’s eyes into dark black pools that seem impossibly large. Amy waits. She wonders what she looks like to Karma. Has the cool light rendered her own face strange and faded?

“I kissed Liam.”

The admission is painful, but not surprising. Some part of Amy has been expecting this. Liam Booker has been the shoe hanging over their relationship since it began, since long before it was even real. It was only a matter of time before it dropped.

“I didn’t mean to!” Karma cries, the words rushing out all at once, “It just happened! It was like muscle memory or something. We just fell into it. One minute we were talking and the next we were making out. Please don’t be mad.”

Amy lets out an angry laugh, “What Karma, am I supposed to be happy about this?”

“No, I just… “

Amy interrupts, “Do you want to be with him?”

Karma looks lost. The genuine conflict on her face hurts Amy more than the admission that she kissed someone else.

She says, “No,” then, “I don’t know.” She looks at Amy with the same trust that she had when they were still nothing more than best friends. “I love you, I really do, but when I’m with him… I still feel that attraction to him. I am so confused. I don’t want to hurt you. I wish there was some way for me to just figure all of this out.”

The honesty of Karma’s confession calms the anger rooted in Amy’s chest. It’s all so familiar. Amy’s own process of confusion and discovery reflected back at her in Karma’s words. The difference is that Amy went through it all alone and Karma doesn’t have to.

“It’s okay,” Amy says finally, closing the distance between them and pulling her into a hug. Karma clutches her tightly. 

This time it's Amy who holds Karma. Amy who stays calm while Karma tries to collect herself. It’s her turn. This is what they do for each other. 

Eventually Karma goes home and Amy returns inside. They don’t kiss goodbye. Later, long after Karma’s gone, Amy lets herself feel the full measure of her uncertainty. She lets herself be selfish and self centered and upset that Karma can’t just want her without reservations. Still, no part of it is worse than thinking about the lost look on Karma's face and knowing that there is nothing she can do to fix it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should just have a threesome. That would solve all of your problems,” Amy jokes. 
> 
> Karma doesn't think it's so funny

“I think we need a plan,” Karma says, pacing back and forth in front of Amy’s bed.

“A plan?” Amy groans. She lies with her feet resting on her headboard and her head pointed towards the end of the bed. If she tilts her head back far enough she can watch an upside down Karma make dizzying trips back and forth across her field of vision.

“Well it’s not like I can just sit around doing nothing!” Karma exclaims, waving her hands. 

Actually she could, Amy thinks. Karma could easily just take some time to figure out what she wants without some crazy plan or test designed to trick her into understanding herself. But Karma’s never been one for quiet reflection and as Amy watches her become more and more agitated she feels herself giving in. What’s one more crazy plan in a relationship built on crazy plans? Whatever she comes up with can’t be worse than pretending to be in a fake relationship can it? And that one had lead to the semi-real relationship they have right now.

“I guess you go on dates with me and then dates with Liam and decide which you like more.” Amy offers.

Karma shakes her head, “I feel like that’s what I’ve been doing and it’s just making me more confused. Plus it’s not fair on either of you to just keep waiting on me.”

Amy sighs, “So what do you want to do? I mean this isn’t something you can solve by, like, pretending to be blind or whatever.”

Karma actually looks annoyed, “I know that Amy.” Then after a moment her face crumples, “Sorry.”

Amy takes a deep breath. “Ok, so what do you need to make a decision? You said you have feelings for both of us and you are attracted to both of us…” Karma squirms a little, her face growing red. Amy raises an eyebrow, “What?”

Karma opens her mouth to speak and then snaps it shut. She begins pacing with new vigor, fidgeting violently with her hands. Finally she turns to Amy abruptly and squeaks out, “Sex.”

The word is a shock to her system. Amy scrambles to sit up, banging her foot painfully against the wall. Karma flinches empathetically. 

“Well, ummm what if it comes down to sex,” says Karma, awkwardly avoiding Amy’s eyes.

A horrified look dawns over Amy’s face, “Like some kind of competition?”

Karma blushes even harder, “No! No. But I always imagined losing my virginity to a guy, and like having sex with them. I never really thought about having sex with girls…”

She lets out a small groan of mortification, covers her beet red face with her hands and collapses next to Amy on the bed. Amy stays rigid. A long moment passes before she manages to form words again.

“Do you think about it now?”

Karma peeks through her fingers up at Amy, “Think about what?”

“Umm, girls?” asks Amy, “Girls and sex?”

She keeps her eyes trained on the wall but remains hyper aware of Karma shifting on the bed next to her. Her heart races at double speed in her chest. The blood pounds in her ears and Amy wishes the ground would open up beneath her and swallow her and this entire awkward moment in time.

Then she feels the warm moist press of Karma’s lips against her neck just above her pulse point. Karma pulls away but Amy can still feel the heat from the kiss searing against her flesh. Karma’s voice, pitched low and rough, snakes into her ear, “I’m definitely thinking about it now.”

Amy’s whole body feels like it’s firing off little electric sparks of want. She pulls Karma close kissing her thoroughly. Without stopping she pushes them both down on the bed. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands because she wants them to be everywhere. She wants to touch every part of this girl. She trails her fingers up Karma’s thigh stopping at the edge of her skirt. Karma gasps. Amy stares down at her and unbidden the image of Karma similarly laid out in the back seat of Liam Booker’s car comes to mind. She drops her hand away. Karma catches her breath. She watches Amy, carefully taking in the conflict etched on her face. She leans up and kisses her softly.

When the kiss breaks Amy sighs, “We should just have a threesome. That would solve all of your problems,” she jokes. 

She leans in for another kiss but this time Karma doesn’t meet her, she pulls away with a faraway look in her eyes.

“Karma,” Amy says warningly. Karma remains lost in thought.

“Karma!” Amy yells, and Karma snaps back to reality. 

“It’s actually not such a terrible idea,” she says sheepishly. Amy stares at her disbelieving. “What?! It would be one way to figure this stuff out! Plus it would be insanely hot.”

Karma’s eyes kind of glaze over and Amy realizes that she’s picturing it and actually getting turned on. Which means that she is at least partially picturing her and Amy together and getting turned on. Maybe Amy should worry more about the “partially” part of that thought but instead she’s stuck at “turned on” and the idea that she is putting that look on Karma’s face.

“Insanely hot huh?” she asks, trying her best to sound coy.

“Mmmhmm” Karma nods her mouth turning up into a wicked smile.

“Well then it can’t be all bad,” says Amy, and she swoops down for another kiss.

 

 

Lauren corners her in the upstairs hallway after dinner.

“Come with me,” she says, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

“What? No.” Amy says, trying to maneuver around her.

“Don’t test me Raudenfeld,” says Lauren with all of the authority and menace of a tiny one woman Gestapo.

She marches Amy into her room. Laid out on the pristine bedspread is an assortment of white and grey formal wear. 

“What’s all this?” Amy asks warily.

“These,” says Lauren, “are your options for the wedding.”

Amy reassesses the bed. There are a couple different cuts of grey slacks, a variety of white shirts, and a few grey jackets and vests. Lauren seems to have ordered them into four distinct outfit options. At first glance none of the clothes are too horrible. A little gratitude wells up in Amy. This was an opportunity for Lauren to exact revenge for whatever they were fighting about this week that she chose not to take. 

“So…” Amy says, glancing at Lauren.

Lauren gestures towards the bed, “You have to try them on. We need to see what you look best in.”

“Why do you care?” Amy thinks it's a good question. The Lauren she’s used to lives for the moments when Amy is humiliated and awkward. She would enjoy Amy looking her worst.

“I need to know for the pictures moron. I will not have you screwing them up.” Lauren snaps.

That explains it. Amy forgot to factor in she was talking to Wedding Lauren, a subset of Lauren that would help her as long as it was for the good of the wedding, or more importantly, the wedding photos. It was Wedding Lauren that had helped her cover her tears during her mom’s bridal shower. “God what is your obsession with pictures?” Amy mutters picking the first set of clothes off the bed.

Lauren huffs at her but otherwise does not respond. Instead she looks back and forth between the clothes and Amy while tapping her foot impatiently.

“Will you at least turn around?” Amy asks, plaintively.

Lauren gives another huff of exasperation, as if the mere fact of Amy’s continued existence is exhausting, “You know for a lesbian you are such a prude.” 

Amy waits for her to turn her back and then pulls on outfit number one. 

“I’m allowed to be a lesbian and a prude. They’re not mutually exclusive.” Amy mumbles, muffled by the fabric of the top she is struggling to pull over her head, “It’s not like a person comes out and suddenly they’re an exhibitionist or whatever.”

“Fascinating,” Lauren replies dryly without turning around.

Amy brushes a few wrinkles out of the fabric, “Alright you can look.”

Lauren turns and surveys the look. She motions for Amy to spin and Amy rotates slowly on the spot. Lauren makes a little humming noise then starts digging through her closet. She emerges with a pair of three inch slate grey heels and thrusts them at Amy. “Now put these on.”

Amy reluctantly takes them. She regards Lauren balefully, “You know I hate heels.”

Lauren rolls her eyes, “Stop bitching they’re not even that high.”

Amy hops a little as she slips her feet into the shoes. They fit perfectly. And, now that she thinks of it, the last pair Lauren let her did as well. “Do you think it’s weird our feet are the same size?” she wonders aloud.

“Are you calling my feet big?” Lauren asks sharply.

Of course she would make it into an insult. That’s what Amy gets for opening her mouth. Still, she doesn’t want to start a fight over this. 

“That’s not what I said,” Amy says carefully, “It’s just with the height difference I expected you to have like, tiny Barbie feet.”

She towers over Lauren now with the added inches from her footwear. From this angle she almost misses the suppressed smile that turns up the corners of Lauren’s mouth when she ducks her head down to check the hem of the slacks.

“I always wanted Barbie feet. Do you know how great they would be for pointe?”

Amy blinks. That might have been an attempt at a joke. She can’t be sure, she’s never heard Lauren make one without intent to wound.

Lauren has her try on the second set of clothes, then the third, then the fourth. As she is shrugging off the third top Amy forgets to make Lauren turn around, but the whole process has been so business-like she lets her vanity go and carries on. She does up the buttons on the fourth top, a well fitted collared dress shirt, then shrugs on a slim grey vest with black sides. Lauren gives her a considering look then tells her to undo two of the shirt buttons. 

“This one.” Lauren says confidently.

Amy looks in the mirror. The collar gapes a little wider with the buttons undone, coming more in line with the vest which hugs at her waist and her breasts. The matching grey pants end just above her ankle and fit as if they’ve been tailored. Combined with the heels she is still wearing for some reason her legs look especially long. Amy wonders how Lauren even knew her sizes and only realizes when Lauren answers that she has wondered out loud.

“I have an eye for measurements,” Lauren tells her, a hint of pride creeping into her voice.

“Is that your way of telling me you’ve been checking out my ass?” Amy asks with a smirk.

Lauren chooses not to rise to the bait because she is better than that, and because Amy’s depraved mind is to be treated with the same compassion one would show a particularly dim dog. Amy knows this because Lauren tells her. She gestures for Amy to get undressed.

Amy steps out of the heels and hands them back. “Do I really have to wear these?“ 

Lauren snatches them back. “All of the groomsmen are taller than you. I am trying to keep a more even eyeline -“

“For the pictures,” Amy interrupts.

“Yes.” Lauren says, jutting her chin out mulishly, “Also since this outfit leans more towards the traditionally masculine I think it’s a good idea to combine it with some pieces that are more traditionally feminine. The contrast is sexy.”

Amy grins as she pulls her own clothes back on. “You think I’m sexy? Wow Lauren I’m seeing a whole new side of you,” she can't help but tease.

Lauren turns red and stammers something unintelligible before grinding out, “One more word and I am going to murder you in your sleep.”

Amy is not altogether convinced that Lauren won’t follow through on the threat. With that in mind she makes a quick exit, but not before throwing a wink over her shoulder at the diminutive blonde and receiving a throw pillow to the face for her efforts.

 

Karma catches Amy by her locker near the end of the day. She’s out of breath and practically vibrating with nervous excitement. Karma moves everywhere at a frenzied trot. Ever since they were kids she was always in such a hurry to get to the next place, the next experience, the next milestone. In contrast Amy likes to take her time. When she walks she stretches out her limbs, taking wide languid steps, and unlike Karma she’s never been in any hurry to grow up. When they walk together, with Karma’s arm looped around Amy’s elbow, Amy makes her movements smaller and quicker and Karma relaxes into a steady pace. It’s a good compromise.

She closes her locker, “Karm you should have seen Lauren last night -“

“Liam said yes!” Karma interrupts, gasping.

An icy feeling runs along Amy’s spine. “Yes?” she asks.

“To the threesome!” Karma whispers. 

“What?!” Amy hisses in disbelief. It comes out louder than she means it too. Amy glances around. None of their classmates are paying them any attention but still a feeling of dread creeps over Amy. This can’t possibly be happening. She watches the hopeful expression fall from Karma’s face.

“Well, we were talking, me and Liam, and I told him what you said about how we should just have a threesome and he was like ‘why not?’. He thinks it would be a great environment for us to explore our sexual expression without judgment!” Karma explains.

Of course he does. Liam Booker, the most enlightened guy to ever jump at the chance to bang two girls at once. Amy lowers her voice and enunciates clearly so she cannot possibly be misunderstood, “Karma, I am not having a threesome with Liam Booker!”

“You suggested it!” Karma exclaims, upset. Amy gestures at her to keep her voice down. She’s looking at Amy as if she can’t understand why Amy is suddenly being so unreasonable.

“As a joke!” Amy snaps, “Can you not tell when I’m joking anymore? Because if so we have a serious problem.”

Karma sighs, “Okay, I’ll just tell him it’s off. We’ll find another way to figure this out.” Something is off in her tone. She sounds almost angry. “I don’t know, maybe Liam has some ideas.”

It sounds like an ultimatum. Suddenly Amy is nervous. What had been a joke has obviously become something serious. Maybe something that could fracture this fragile thing she has been building with Karma. 

She lets herself imagine what would happen if she agreed to do it. Would they all go through with it? Or would it be some sort of game of sexual chicken? If she refuses will Karma just go ahead with Liam anyway? She regrets ever making the stupid joke in the first place, regrets opening her mouth at all. If she doesn’t say yes this is another one of Karma’s plans that she has ruined. If she does…

“Just let me think about it okay?” she says finally.

Karma squeals and gives her a hug. Amy feels nauseous. 

 

The first thing Amy does after Karma leaves is seek out Shane. She finds him outside between periods and bullies him away from the group of people he’s chatting with. They sit at one of the school picnic tables. She explains her situation while simultaneously banging her head against the surface of the table at regular intervals.

“It’s like ultimate comparison shopping,” he says, impressed, “Karma has balls.”

Amy lifts her head back up to stare at him disbelievingly, “Seriously. That’s all you’re going to say?”

“What do you want me to say? You were the one that came up with the idea.”

“As a joke!” She exclaims, letting her head hit the table again with a thunk.

His voice softens, “Well, good news, Karma wants to have sex with you!”

“And Liam,” she moans against the wood.

“Liam is actually really good in bed.” Shane says, “Not that I know from experience, he’s too broody for me, but I’ve helped him get rid of nearly every girl he’s hooked up with and they’ve all given really positive reviews. I think a few of them actually started a yelp page,” he muses thoughtfully.

Amy glares at him, “Not helpful.”

Shane flicks one of his hands impatiently, “I’m just saying, if this is going to be your first time with a dude at least it’s a guy who’s, you know, good at it.”

Shane seems to be missing the most basic part of her objection, so Amy reiterates. “I’m not having sex with Liam Booker!”

He considers her seriously, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You can always tell her no. Even if you go through with the threesome you can both just touch Karma.” He grins, “She’d probably love that.”

Oh god, he’s right. She absolutely would. Karma loves being the center of attention. This is an attention seekers masturbatory fantasy come to life. 

“It would probably let you know where you stand,” Shane says gently, “If Liam’s the one she can’t keep her hands off that’s a bad sign. On the other hand you get a chance to show her your moves too.” He pauses, “Wait, do you even have moves?”

 

Amy leaves the conversation feeling like crap. She spends the last period of the school day churning over everything Shane said and completely ignoring whatever her teacher is yammering on about. If her love life is going to keep being this complicated there’s a good chance she is going to flunk all of her classes. When the last bell rings she rushes out of the room and immediately runs head first into Liam Booker. He starts to apologize for the crash but when he sees who it is his eyes go wide and the words die on his lips. He looks as nervous as Amy feels. They both mumble awkward hellos. He really is a very pretty boy, Amy thinks. Very girly lips. Then she bolts away at a full sprit, leaving Liam gaping in her dust.

That night at the dinner table Amy considers asking her mom for advice. It’s a ridiculous thought. She tries to imagine how she would phrase it… ‘Mom, I have this friend who needs some advice about how many people she should lose her virginity to…’ God, Farrah’s head would explode! She thinks about talking with Lauren like they were real sisters. Amy almost laughs out loud at the thought. Within minutes the news of her threesome would be probably be running through the school like wildfire. But then Lauren looks across the table at Amy with a searching expression and a smile of her own and Amy isn't so sure. Lauren turns her attention back to her dinner and Amy wonders what it would be like to know her.

Instead of doing her homework she stares at her phone. She stares until the screen blurs in her vision. Then finally, slowly, she taps in three words and hits send.

“I’ll do it.”


	7. Chaper 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fuck Liam Booker. If she is going to have a threesome with the beautiful girl she’s completely in love with and some idiot, then she is going to do it on her terms."

Karma is apparently hell bent on the two of them wearing matching trench coats and lingerie to the threesome Amy still can’t believe she agreed to. They are at Amy’s house after school and Karma is pawing through Farrah’s closet while Amy looks on. She pulls out a coat and holds it up for Amy’s approval.

“What do you think?”

It’s a silly thing to ask because obviously all Amy is thinking about is how the idea of her and Liam Booker in the same room, let alone the same bed makes her want to throw up. But Karma is looking at her with pleading eyes that are making Amy’s heart do a little involuntary backflips, so instead she swallows down her fear and uncertainty and actual literal nausea. Fuck Liam Booker. If she is going to have a threesome with the beautiful girl she’s completely in love with and some idiot, then she is going to do it on her terms. She regards the coat and then pulls a face, “No way.”

Karma frowns and glances down. “Really? I thought this was one of the better ones.”

Amy takes the coat away from her, holding it as one might hold a small pox infested blanket. “I mean I’m not wearing this,” she says in a tone she hopes sounds final.

She goes to hang it with the eight other nearly identical coats at the front of her mom’s closet. When did long tan garments start to seem so intimidating? It’s like they are taunting her, staring… or they would be if coats had eyes… or sentience… and oh god, maybe she’s finally lost it. The stress of being a teen lesbian has finally broken her.

“Amy…” Karma’s voice is reproachful but Amy can barely hear her over the rustling clothes at the back of the closet where she is now burying the trench coat behind a particularly hideous sequined dress Farrah once wore to her third grade talent show. (She and Karma had performed the world’s worst lip sync to ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun.’ Farrah had stood up and cheered so loudly when they finished all the other parents had eyed her like she might need to be medicated).

“I never said I was going to, like, wear some kind of costume!” Amy exclaims distractedly. She would probably sound more convincing if she weren’t still in the closest trying to extricate herself from a cashmere sweater set, which has somehow wrapped itself around her neck. She is such a mess these days, it’s like each new moment is trying to one up the last in sheer awkwardness. Which is why it’s not even surprising when she pulls to hard and finds herself tripping backwards out of the closet, barely catching herself from falling in a heap on the floor. Somewhere in her mind she hears Shane’s voice with it’s signature singsong lilt cooing, ‘Awww metaphor!’ It makes Amy want to punch her own brain in the face.

“Are you okay?” Karma asks grabbing Amy’s arm to steady her. 

Is she? Amy thinks the answer is pretty obviously no, but then she looks up at Karma with her concerned eyes, her lips curved in a fond smile… and maybe she will be okay. Maybe everything will be

“I just… I’m not dressing up for him,” Amy says trying to find the words that fit her discomfort, “I’m not interested in putting on a show, or being a part of some guy’s fantasy.”

Karma nods seriously as she talks, brushing her hands up Amy’s arms, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her sleeves. Her hands are resting gently on Amy’s shoulders before Amy quite realizes what happening. She twists a strand of Amy’s hair through her fingers. “And what about my fantasy?” she asks, her voice low and playful.

It sends an actual shiver up Amy’s spine. She swallows thickly, “This is your fantasy? Matching trench coats?”

Karma drops her hands back to her sides and laughs breaking the tension. “Okay, we don’t have to do the coats.”

Amy stays rooted to the spot. There is a little part of her brain that is trying to remind her that she used to be able to move and speak and think but it’s being drowned out by the much larger part that is flooded with chants of “karma karma karma karma,” from every nerve ending. Karma picks her bag off of the floor, clearly getting ready to leave. Amy wants to stop her, to hold her still and make her understand. This is what you do to me. My whole world begins and ends with you. Is it the same for you? Karma takes her by the hand. Suddenly Amy can move again. She follows as Karma leads her down the stairs. They stop in the kitchen. Karma comes close again. The scent of her is overwhelming. Amy’s eyes flutter closed involuntarily. Karma kisses Amy quickly on the cheek then drops her lips to Amy’s ear.

“Hey, this is going to be great. I promise you.” Karma whispers. 

There is a flurry of motion and she is gone. All that remains is the sound of the door closing in the next room. Amy draws in a shaky breath. Traces of Karma still linger in the air. Amy savors the sensation.

“The way you let her treat you is pathetic.” A shrill voice cuts through the kitchen. 

Amy’s eyes snap open. Lauren is leaning against the counter. She holds a spoon over a half eaten yogurt, her face a mask of disgust. Has she been there the whole time? Was Amy so wrapped up in Karma that she hadn’t even noticed Satan’s hell spawn glaring at them over fermented dairy? Amy mentally apologizes to Mrs. Goldfarb, the awkward middle-aged woman with the severe overbite who taught freshman year sex-ed. ‘You kids think you’re so smart, but in the end your hormones will take each and everyone of you and turn you into an moron,’ Mrs. Goldfarb had warned before launching into an incredibly detailed and inappropriate breakdown of her latest failed relationship. At the time Amy had laughed. Now she can’t help but agree. As if set on a delay, Lauren’s comment finally registers in Amy’s consciousness, and really fuck Lauren. What does she know about anything? If anyone is pathetic it’s her and her lapdog idiot boyfriend.

“I’m not pathetic!” Amy snaps, “No one asked you.”

Lauren huffs and exits the kitchen with a dramatic abrupt turn. Fuck her, Amy thinks again. In two seconds she managed to completely ruin her Karma high and send her crashing back to earth. Amy tries to regain it, to remember the feeling that Karma brought out of her, but it’s no use. She retreats to her room, back to stewing in uncertainty that Karma is no longer around to kiss away.

 

School the next day is a blur. There seems to be some kind of low-level hum following Amy from class to class blocking out whatever each teacher is saying. Karma shoots her nervous smiles whenever they see one another. Liam makes eye contact and gives her a nod when they pass each other in the hallway. Then the day is over and she is back at her house having dinner with her Mom, Bruce, and Lauren trying to figure out what lie she is going to tell so that she can leave to go to the closest motel and lose her virginity to her best friend and a relative stranger.

“I promised Shane I would help him with his math homework.” She blurts out as Farrah starts to clear away the dishes. In a flash of horror Amy realizes it’s the exact same excuse she heard Lauren use to cover her trysts with Tommy. She can feel Lauren’s eyes on her from across the table. Farrah just nods and tells her to say hello to ‘that charming boy’ for her.

 

They all arrive at the motel separately. Amy waits in her car for five minutes until she sees Karma pull up. Karma gets out of her car. Amy registers that she is wearing a long red coat and heels with nothing else visible underneath. Amy feels a flash of irritation. Hadn’t they decided not to dress up? Or had Karma just been telling Amy what she wanted to hear? She looks beautiful though, even under the parking lot lights. Karma starts walking towards the motel room. Amy watches her go. This is it. She could start the engine back up and head home right now. Or she could actually go to Shane’s and finish her pretty extensive math homework. But if she left Karma and Liam together in the motel room, what then? Would Karma still go through with it? The simple truth of the matter is that Amy isn’t sure. So Amy opens her door and steps onto the pavement. She catches up to Karma at the motel room door and they walk in together.

The interior of the motel is a parody of romance. Everything seems to be decorated in shades of red or pink. The faux-wood night tables and dresser are covered in lit scented candles filling the room with a flickering glow and almost toxic perfume. A bottle of - is that champagne? - chills in a silver bowl next to some tall glasses and a box that looks like it contains expensive chocolate. Music emanates from a speaker in the corner plugged into what must be Liam’s phone. The song playing features a smooth-voiced R&B singer crooning about touching a woman. Liam is already in the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. He stands abruptly when they enter. Before anyone can say a word the song changes to an instrumental track with a heavy bass line that sounds like it belongs in porn. Liam leaps across the room to his phone. He taps it quickly and the music is back to being generic R&B.

“Sorry,” He says his voice creaking a little with tension, “It’s not my playlist.”

Amy has to admit that while the room and its cheap approximation of romance is gross, Liam Booker is not. He has exchanged his usual t-shirt and jeans for a well-cut suit. His hands are clean of the usual paints and clay dust and his hair is more managed than usual. Most importantly he is clearly nervous. His hands must be sweating because he keeps rubbing them against the side of his pants. His eyes are a little bit wild and his voice sounds like it’s just on the verge of cracking. Liam looks almost as lost as Amy feels, which actually makes her feel a little bit better.

“Can I get you anything? Champagne?” Liam stutters gesturing to the bottle in the silver bowl.

“I’d love some.” Karma says with a reassuring smile. It’s funny, while both Amy and Liam are floundering like fish on dry land Karma is purposeful. She is nervous, Amy has known her long enough to be able to tell that, but of the three of them Karma is the only one who doesn’t seem to be looking for an emergency exit. 

Liam pops the champagne bottle and pours them all glasses. He delivers them to Karma and Amy with shaking hands. Karma smiles and sips at hers while keeping eye contact with Liam. Amy watches as some of the nervous tension leaves Liam’s body, replaced by tension of a different kind. He smiles back and it seems so… intimate. Amy gulps down her glass ignoring the way the bubbles burn her sinuses. Steeling herself discards the champagne glass, then her shirt, then her pants. She clears her throat and Karma and Liam break their stare to look at her. At the sight of Amy in her underwear Liam’s jaw goes slack. It would be a bit of an ego boost if it weren’t for the much more complicated expression on Karma’s face. 

In the hundreds of times they have changed in front of each other over the years Amy knows Karma has never seen her like this. While she had rejected Karma’s coat suggestion, Amy has not entirely ignored her on the front of lingerie. She had kept it simple, no bows, and no frills, absolutely no pink. Instead she picked out a well-cut pair of black panties and a severely overpriced black bra with cut outs that form a V at her cleavage. The effect is sexy. Or at least, Amy had felt sexy when she had tried them on in the store, surprised at the fullness of her breasts and her long flat stomach. Now she just feels awkward. 

Amy watches as Karma’s eyes shift between Liam’s expression of lust and Amy’s nearly naked body. The confidence she had displayed just moments ago has noticeably disappeared. The awkward tension between them threatens to reach critical mass. It’s obvious someone has to do something, but neither Liam nor Karma is making any moves. That just leaves Amy. Speaking with confidence she does not feel, Amy asks, “Fuck it. Is this a threesome or a staring contest? Let’s do this.”

She moves towards Liam, pushing him none too gently into sitting position on the bed. The springs creak under his weight. Amy turns to Karma. Amy takes the tie to the red coat in her hands. She catches Karma’s gaze, questioning. For the first time Karma seems to tremble. She visibly swallows and gives Amy a barely perceptible nod. Amy responds by tugging on the tie, undoing the knot and letting the coat fall open. Underneath is a black corset, less frilly than Amy would have guessed. She looks Karma up and down with open appreciation. She is beautiful and soft and very very sexy. Amy eases the coat off of Karma’s shoulders and lets it drop to the ground. Over by the bed Amy hears Liam sputtering, apparently choking on a sip of champagne. She ignores it. Karma shivers, her eyes now glued to the ground and Amy feels such tenderness rise up in her. All of her nerves drop away leaving her with nothing but the desire to take care of Karma.

Ever so gently Amy places the tips of her fingers under Karma’s chin and tilts her head back up. Karma makes reluctant eye contact. Her eyes are wet, suddenly shining with vulnerability, her lips slightly parted. Amy holds her gaze projecting as much warmth and confidence as she can muster. Slowly Amy reaches forward and runs her fingers through Karma’s perfectly wavy hair. She brings some of it to rest over Karma’s bare shoulders. “Relax,” Amy whispers. Karma lets out the breath she’s been holding. She nods slightly. Amy traces her fingers along Karma’s shoulders, never breaking eye contact. She leans closer to Karma and waits. She waits until Karma can’t take the tension anymore, closes the distance between them, and presses their lips together.

It’s a slow kiss, tender and personal. It takes time. When it is over Karma leans away, something like surprise passing over her face. She exhales softly, “Wow.” 

“I know.” Amy replies equally soft.

Amy leans back in and Karma meets her. They are so wrapped up in one another that Amy doesn’t notice that Liam is no longer on the bed until she feels a hand, large and rough, at her back. Amy opens her eyes to see Liam standing close with one hand at Karma’s waist and the other at Amy’s back. Some time in the last few minutes he has lost his shirt revealing a muscled chest and torso. Unconsciously stepping away, Amy breaks the kiss. Karma’s lips are slightly swollen, her eyes cloudy. Amy’s sure she looks much the same. Liam glances between the two of them. Uncertainty flashes across his face. Then he lunges at Amy and before she can do anything he kisses her deeply. In any normal circumstance it would even be a good kiss. Liam is attentive and controlled. He doesn’t just thrust his tongue in her mouth or bruise her lips. But these aren’t normal circumstances, Amy has just finished kissing Karma and every other thing pales in comparison. She thinks of Karma and lets him kiss her until finally he pulls away. After that she only has a second from the moment his lips detach from hers to register the expression on Karma’s face before Liam draws Karma into a longer deeper kiss.

Karma had looked…wounded. Hurt somehow. Amy knows instinctually it was Liam’s choice to kiss Amy first that caused it. Any jealously she may have felt has obviously been assuaged by Liam’s kiss, because Karma is responding with enthusiasm running her hands up his chest and curling herself into him. It is as if she can’t possibly be close enough to him, trying to make contact with every available surface of his body. Their kiss is hungry and physical, but it’s not only that, because when they finally break apart Karma looks up at him with…

And that’s when she knows. She knows what she’s suspected all along but hasn’t wanted to admit to herself. That no matter what Karma may or may not feel for her it is not enough. That while Amy wants that closeness, emotional and physical, with Karma, Karma wants it with Liam. 

Amy wants to cry. She wants to throw something. She wants to throw something at stupid attentive Liam and his stupid symmetrical face. She can’t though, because Karma is right in front of her again, cupping her face drawing her in for another kiss. This time nothing disappears, she can hear the air conditioning unit whirring, smells the slightly sour tang of alcohol, feels Liam’s hot breath by her ear. Tears prick at her eyes. She can’t breathe. She’s barely responding to the kiss and Karma finally clues in that something is wrong. She pulls back and Amy reels away drawing in a shaky breath. She turns her back to them as the tears she’s been holding back start to release down her cheeks.

“Amy?” a concerned voice asks, “Are you okay?” It’s Liam, not Karma who speaks. He cautiously puts a hand on her shoulder. She twitches but doesn’t shake him off. He’s close enough now to see the tears.

“Liam can you maybe give us a minute?” Karma asks. He moves away and Karma replaces him on the periphery of Amy’s vision. “What’s going on?” She sounds nervous. 

“I can’t,” Amy says choking on each word.

“But, everything was going so well,” Karma says quietly.

Amy doesn’t respond. How can she? Her heart is breaking in her chest. 

“Look everything is going to be fine. You just need to relax right?” A little bit of desperation is leaking into Karma’s voice. 

“I can’t.” Amy says louder, “I’m sorry, I … I need to go. I just can’t… not with you and him.”

“Amy,” Karma is reproachful, “Come on…”

Come on and what? Amy wants to ask. Fuck Liam? Watch you lose your virginity to someone else? Watch you want someone more than me? She feels her temper, always there like an old reliable friend, flaring up. She wipes her teary cheeks roughly with a closed fist. Her heartbeat is pounding in her ears. It’s so loud that she has to yell to hear herself over it.

“Stop it!” Amy barks, turning back to face Karma, “You knew I didn’t want to do this! You knew it and you pressured me into it anyway, which I let you do because I didn’t want to lose you.” Her voice breaks a little at the end. She wishes she were anywhere else. Or that Liam was anywhere else. Breaking down in front of Liam Booker is something she could have happily lived an eternity without.

Karma looks like she’s been punched in the stomach. She starts tearing up before Amy is even finished speaking. Liam’s mouth sets in a grim line. He starts shifting around and Amy realizes he is looking for his clothes when he picks his shirt off of the ground and starts buttoning it up.

“I should go,” He says shrugging on his suit jacket and refusing to look either Amy or Karma in the face.

“Liam, please!” Karma pleads grabbing one of his wrists. She is now fully crying and her make up is starting to streak. 

Liam pauses, “Look Karma, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I am not about forcing anyone to do something that they’re not comfortable with.” He turns to Amy, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He trails off shaking his head. He grabs his phone from the counter and disconnects it from the speaker, leaving the room abruptly silent magnifying the sound of the door opening and closing with his exit. Amy and Karma look at one another for a second, and then without so much as a word Karma grabs her coat and runs out the door after him. Amy can hear her calling for him to wait from out in the parking lot.

Then its just Amy, standing still in the motel room almost completely naked. Suddenly the word ‘alone’ takes on a whole new, more desperate, meaning. She wonders if Karma is coming back. The thought is cool and detached, a far cry from the emotional high from moments ago. It’s as if her emotional brain overloaded and had to be shut down, leaving only a numb base level processer. Quietly and efficiently she locates her clothes and pulls them on, then starts walking around the room blowing out the dozens of candles, killing each flickering flame and watching as they are replaced with thin tendrils of smoke. 

Amy is absently noting that the smoke detector in the room is pretty clearly broken when she hears the door open again. Karma has returned. Her makeup is smeared and streaky, her hair mussed. The coat she threw on over her corset pools around her shoulders, a mockery of the casual sexiness it had been employed in earlier. She looks around the room as if in a daze, then her gaze falls on Amy and her demeanor changes. Her jaw clenches. Her posture becomes ridged. It’s so unfamiliar that it takes Amy a second to realize that Karma is furious. 

“What was that?” Karma asks, softly, dangerously.

“I’m sorry.” Amy repeats dully. 

“Did you plan this?” 

The accusation jars Amy out of her detached state.

“What?” she chokes out, “Did I plan this? I’m pretty sure that ‘threesome’ was all you.”

“Did you agree to the threesome just so that you could make me look bad in front of Liam?” Karma clarifies. She wraps the coat tighter around her and ties it tightly shut.

“Are you fucking insane? God who are you?” Amy regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. Karma’s face flushes. It is absolutely the wrong thing to say, even if it’s true. This Karma, the one that is standing in front of her making accusations, is a stranger. There is nothing left of her friend, or girlfriend (if that’s what they even were). There is only a distraught, angry young woman that looks remarkably like someone Amy loves. 

Karma crosses her arms over her chest. Her anger sears the room like a physical heat. She says, “I think we need to break up.”

A lump grows in Amy’s throat. “I think we already did”

 

In no time at all Amy is back in her car driving away from the motel and Karma and the shit show that was this whole evening. The streetlights lining the road blur into gold lines glowing through the haze of her tears. Every breath is a struggle, her lungs barely able to draw in air through her tightly constricted throat. It’s frankly dangerous; she should have called someone to pick her up but who? She’s not up to explaining herself to Shane. She can’t imagine facing Lauren. She considers calling Bruce, or oh god her mom, but what would she say? She drives ten miles under the speed limit all the way home. 

As she pulls into her driveway and shifts into park, Amy realizes her hands are shaking. Actually her whole body is shaking. She only barely manages to open the driver’s side door and step out before her legs collapse underneath her bring her to the pavement. She curls up with her back against the side of the car, tears streaming down her face, her chest heaving with soundless sobs. 

Amy isn’t sure how long she has been sitting there when a high voice says, “Hey baby,” softly from a few feet away. Amy looks up to find a watery version of Farrah crouched down in front of her. 

“Hey mom,” Amy says, her voice weighed down with tears.

“Will you come inside with me?” Farrah asks reaching out her hands.

Amy nods and takes them. She lets her mother pull her to her feet and wrap her up in her arms. Amy didn’t think she had many more tears in her, but in Farrah’s embrace she sobs the hardest she has yet.

“Hey there,” Farrah croons, “hey, I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

When Amy’s breathing has returned to something within the realm of normal Farrah leads her into the house and sits her down in the kitchen. She finds a washcloth and runs it under cold water, wrings it out, and begins pressing it under Amy’s eyes. Pausing only to run the cloth under more water Farrah carefully and patiently cleans away all the remnants of the last few hours. Amy’s face starts to feel like her own again. The headache that started pounding as she closed the motel room door behind her begins to subside. Farrah sets a glass of water down in front of her and Amy drinks from it gratefully.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Farrah asks gently, sitting down across the table.

Amy feels the corners of her eyes starting to burn, “Karma and I broke up.”

She waits for Farrah to say something like ‘Thank God!’ or ‘Does this mean you are done being a lesbian?’ but instead all she says is, “I’m so sorry baby,” and takes one of Amy’s hands in her own.

Amy can't help it. Once again tears start to trail down her cheeks. Farrah sits with her, not letting go of her hand until the last one falls.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She had never imagined the wedding without Karma at her side. In fact, Amy had never really imagined any future without Karma in it."

Amy’s world ended on a Thursday. On Friday she skips school. Really, she doesn’t so much skip as fail to get out of bed all together. When she regains consciousness hours after her first class would have started and still exhausted from the night before, she finds a note on her bedside table written in Farrah’s looping handwriting. Her mother has had the foresight to call Amy in sick from school. She tells Amy not to worry, and to take the day to recover. ‘Heartsick is still sick,’ she writes. Amy says a silent thank you to her mother and promptly goes back to sleep. 

She dreams about drowning. She is trapped underwater, an unseen force holding her legs, keeping her from moving. Above her she can see light rippling over the surface of the water. A shadow appears above her. It’s Karma, looking down from a dock or a boat, Amy’s not sure. She gazes through the water without expression, unmoving as she watches the last of the air force its way from Amy’s lungs only to be replaced by water. 

Amy wakes with her sheets tangled around her legs and silent tears are trickling down her cheeks. 

The rest of the weekend Amy spends locked in her room in a miserable stupor. Mercifully everyone lets her stay there. Initially Farrah tries to tempt her downstairs by ordering from her favorite restaurants, but after the fifth call of, “I’m not hungry!” through Amy’s still closed door she gives up. 

She alternates between staring at the ceiling and drifting into fitful bouts of sleep. Most of her waking thoughts are devoted to playing back her entire relationship with Karma in her head. Sometimes she starts when they began fake dating, sometimes when she told Karma her feelings were real. Sometimes she starts all the way back when they were five years old. Everyday little Karma would search the playground for flowers at recess, only to turn around and give the ones she found to Amy with a bright smile. Amy thinks about sending Karma a message. She swipes open the screen of her phone, ignoring the many all-caps texts from Shane that keep popping up, and opens a new text window. Her fingers hover over the letters. She doesn’t know what to say.

What finally snaps her back to reality is the sight of Lauren furtively shoving a slightly squashed granola bar under her door. Returning from a quick trip to the kitchen for a glass of water, Amy catches Lauren mid crouch, a second bar still in her hand. Hearing the creak of the floorboards as Amy abruptly stops, Lauren whips her head up. She freezes like a deer caught in headlights, holding Amy’s gaze. Then she stands and pushes straight past Amy, nose in the air, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. 

Being pathetic enough to evoke pity from the person that would most like to claw out your eyeballs and eat them is the truest indicator that you need to pull yourself together.

Amy starts by showering, finally washing out the remnants of the hair spray that has been crackling in her hair for days. When she gets out she wipes the steam off of the mirror. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but she looks exactly the same. Surely there should be some visible mark? Some evidence of damage? But there’s nothing there. Leaving the mirror she goes to her closet and puts on fresh clothes. The very act makes her feel a little more human. 

Downstairs she comes across Lauren in the kitchen. Schoolbooks are spread across the counter along with a collection of notepaper and pencils. Lauren cradles her head in one hand, tracing the eraser of a pencil down a line of equations as she reads the instructions. She is intently focused, her lips pursing with a frown as she makes her way down the page. Unbidden a memory creeps over Amy of playing with Barbies at Karma’s house when they were six or seven. Karma’s dolls were always actresses or fashion designers with huge closets and perfect Ken doll boyfriends, but when it was Amy’s turn she would make her Barbie a college student studying to be something cool, like a marine biologist or a forensic anthropologist. Usually the game would end with Karma calling her boring and packing the dolls away with a sigh, pulling Barbie out from behind her Barbie sized desk and tossing her plastic books back inside the Dreamhouse. The image of Lauren at the counter makes it look like Barbie just picked the books up off the Dreamhouse floor and continued studying after Amy and Karma left.

Lauren notices her standing there. She takes in Amy’s wet hair and freshly scrubbed face, “So, you’re done wallowing in self pity?” 

Amy shrugs, “It was getting old.” 

“Well good,” Lauren says crisply, “because you were starting to stink. I swear I could smell you from across the hall.”

“You’re disgusting.” Amy groans.

Lauren’s eyebrows arch, “I’m not the one who thinks hygiene is optional.”

 

The next step is for Amy to finally return some of Shane’s messages. She taps out a text telling him that she is alive and ready to talk. 7 minutes later he is at her front door gasping for air and clutching his side.

“Oh my god did you run here?” Amy asks incredulously. 

Shane ignores her. “Not… important…” he croaks out between shuddering breaths, “tell me… everything!”

Amy beckons him inside and gets him a glass of water before leading him up to her room. He gulps down it gratefully.

“What have you heard?” Amy asks tentatively.

“Nothing!” Shane exclaims, voice laden with frustration. Having finally caught his breath he starts pacing the room. Amy watches him from her desk chair. “Liam won’t say anything and Karma was like super vague!”

Amy’s brain grinds to a halt, “You talked to Karma?”

“For like a minute,” Shane says dismissively.

“What did she say?”

“She just said it was a mistake and then hung up on me. You have to tell me what happened! The suspense is making me break out! Do you see this? This is a stress zit!” Shane points to his chin, which remains smooth and unblemished.

Well she’s not wrong, Amy thinks wryly. That night was nothing if not a mistake for everyone involved. She takes a deep breath, “I couldn’t go through with it. I called it off while we were in the middle of… and then Liam left which made Karma really upset. Then I guess we broke up?” Amy starts tearing up, “Looks like the plan backfired huh?”

“Oh honey…” Shane murmurs. 

He takes her hand in his, and it all comes out. For the first time she puts all of the details into words, even the ones she couldn’t tell her mother, and at the end of it she feels a fraction lighter.

There is a cautious knock at the door and Lauren pokes her head in, “Hey, Farrah’s asking if Shane wants to stay for dinner.”

Amy hadn’t realized it had gotten so late, but a quick look out her now darkened window confirms evening has come.

“I’d love to.” Shane tells her brightly.

“Whatever,” Lauren mutters, “Be downstairs in ten.”

In no time Shane is settled at the extra place setting next to Amy, and is happily helping himself to the basket of rolls in the center of the table. He even joins hands with Amy and Farrah as Bruce bows his head and says grace. They pass around the dishes. When his plate is full Shane takes a bite, making an approving noise as he chews. He swallows and says, “Wow Mrs. Raudenfeld, Amy didn’t tell me you were a professional chef!”

Farrah brushes off the compliment, but a please blush remains on her cheeks through the rest of the meal.

“So Shane, tell us about yourself,” Bruce asks in between bites of chicken. 

“Capricorn on the cusp of Aquarius,” Shane quips, “That’s what gives me my willful nature.”

Bruce chuckles, “And what do your parents do?”

“Dad’s an investment banker and mom is an entrepreneur,” answers Shane.

“What does she sell?” asks Bruce.

With horror Amy suddenly remembers Shane once telling her that his mom sold sex toys out of the trunk of her car.

“Oh novelty items… trinkets,” Shane says, and Amy lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, “That kind of thing.”

Bruce turns to his Lauren, “Lauren honey, has Shane met Pablo yet?”

“Dad!” Lauren exclaims, shooting him a look that practically screams ‘Drop it!’

Shane’s eyes light up, “Ooh who’s Pablo?”

“He’s Lauren’s dance partner. Great kid. Very attractive too.” Bruce answers, while Lauren stares daggers at her dinner plate.

Shane shoots her a sly look, “Lauren! You’ve been holding out on me.”

Lauren fixes him with a death glare, “Please, LoLo is way too good for you.”

Shane makes a little wounded noise clutching his hand to his chest, but just as quickly he’s back to smiling and fielding questions from Bruce and Farrah. Amy watches him charm her mother, banter with Lauren, and puff up for Bruce. He shoots her a wink as he wraps up a story about the tater tot riots that ensued during the week the Hester cafeteria tried to be completely organic and vegan. Amy understands. This is what Shane is good at, being the center of attention. Right now he is doing it on purpose. He is doing it for her, deflecting focus from the fact that this is her first family meal in three days. He fills potentially awkward silences with his stories and his laughter. By the end of the meal Amy wants to pull him aside and apologize for all of the times she ever considered him shallow or a flake.

After profusely thanking Farrah for the meal Shane says his goodbyes. Bruce shakes his hand and in a loud whisper tells him that Pablo will be at Lauren’s next dance competition. Lauren’s face twists up in such disgust at her father that Amy can’t help but let out hoarse laugh, the first of its kind in days. Amy almost finds another one when Shane incites a theatrical air kiss with Farrah.

To Lauren he just says, “I can’t wait to see your dance competition,” with a wink and an impish smile. She gives him the finger and wanders upstairs.

And then Amy is alone with him again. “One more hug for the road?” he asks.

She nods and he wraps his arms around her. If Amy clings to him a little too tight he has the grace not to mention it. Reluctantly she lets him go.

 

Later, Amy is getting ready to go to sleep when Farrah lightly knocks on her door, “Can I come in?” 

Amy nods. Farrah sits on the end of her bed.

“It was nice to see your friend tonight. I’m glad you are expanding outside of…” she stops short of saying Karma’s name. 

“Yeah, Shane is great,” Amy agrees. Her voice betrays her, cracking at the end.

Farrah pats Amy’s foot under the covers. “I know it’s hard. It will keep being hard.”

Amy smiles ruefully, “Why do I get the feeling you trying to tell me that I have to go back to school tomorrow?

“Because I am telling you that you have to go back to school tomorrow.” Farrah says, but not without kindness.

“What if I can’t do it?” Amy asks, “Face her I mean.”

Farrah brushes a piece of hair out of Amy’s face, holding her gaze. “Hey,” she says, “Listen to me. You are stronger than you think you are.”

“What if I’m not?” asks Amy.

Farrah just smiles, “You are.” 

She plants a kiss on Amy’s forehead, and says a quiet, “I love you,” against her hairline. 

“Love you too,” Amy responds, as her mother switches off the light and closes her door, leaving her in darkness.

 

What becomes immediately apparent from the moment Amy steps on the Hester campus is that the whole school knows. Not the details. Or, at least, not the correct details. They know that Amy and Karma broke up and that Liam was involved in some way.

Both Amy and Lauren decide to walk to school. Rather than walking her usual ten paces in front of Amy in an effort to ignore her existence, Lauren stays beside her. They don’t talk, but Amy can tell the act itself is meant as a form of solidarity. Coming from Lauren it’s actually a pretty big gesture. However, the companionable silence of their ten-minute walk now makes Amy acutely aware of every stare and whisper coming from the groups of students waiting for the first bell.

It’s clear they know something, and the uncomfortable truth is if the whole school knows about the break up there are a very limited number of sources that could have disseminated the information. Besides the three people actually involved in that disastrous night Amy’s fairly certain the only other people who knew any details at all were Shane and Lauren. Shane had said Liam wouldn’t even talk to him about it, and if he wasn’t telling his best friend it wasn’t likely Liam would have told anyone else. She herself had made Shane swear to stay quiet. Had Karma talked to anyone? Who would she even tell now that she and Amy aren’t speaking? Amy considers the blonde beside her. Lauren had made it clear on numerous occasions that she had no love lost for her stepsister. Amy had thought they were making progress, but maybe…

As if she knew exactly what Amy was thinking at that moment Lauren mutteres, “Don’t look at me. I don’t think you’re interesting enough to gossip about. Try asking the well-known blabbermouth that ate all of the rolls at dinner last night.”

Right on cue Shane runs up huffing and puffing, “Everyone knows... wasn’t me…” he pants, “I really need to get into better shape.”

“Do you think Liam?” Amy asks urgently.

Shane shakes his head, “He wouldn’t.”

Amy shoots him a look, which conveys clearly the standard to which she holds Liam Booker.

“Seriously!” Shane insists, “That boy keeps more secrets than the NSA! Pre leak!”

Lauren, who has been listening in, scoffs at that and walks off.

“It wasn’t Liam.” Shane swears. 

 

At the beginning of the year Amy had been upset that She’d had so few actual classes with Karma. Now she has never been more grateful. Her morning is Karma free. She feels the pit of dread in her stomach growing as she nears lunch, the first period they share.

She is trudging the path between her locker and the cafeteria as a prisoner might walk to the gallows when something grabs her arm and yanks her head first into the ladies room. She has to throw up her arms to catch herself from crashing face first into the metal wall of a bathroom stall. When she turns around her diminutive step sister-to-be is staring at her with her arms crossed. 

“What the hell Lauren?” she yells, “Are you graduating to assault?”

Lauren rolls her eyes, “Oh stop whining. I barely touched you.”

“What. Do. You. Want.” Amy enunciates, irritation dripping from every syllable. 

Lauren’s eyes flash with anger, then seem to relent, “I found out who told.” 

What? Amy asks uncomprehendingly.

“You know that Silent Disco for Sobriety thing the Islam Against Violence Club is putting on next weekend?” Lauren pulls a face, “God why we can’t just have dances like a normal school? Anyway, apparently Vashti Nadira cornered Karma this morning and tried to get her to buy a couples ticket. Karma said no, and you know how Vashti is. Bitch had her singing like a canary in minutes.” 

Amy groans. The last thing she wants to do is deal with Vashti and her recorder. “Oh god, she’s going to want to interview me for the school paper.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Lauren says a small smirk hovering at her lips.

“What? Why?” Amy asks, and Lauren’s smile gets worryingly wider, “Never mind, I don’t want to know.” She takes a deep breath, and then lets out a quick, “Okay,” because maybe if she says it she can start to believe she will be. Realizing Lauren is still standing there expectantly, Amy tells her, “Thank you,” with all of the sincerity she can muster. 

Lauren replies with a guarded, “You’re welcome,” and exits the bathroom with the same verve with which she came. 

Amy goes to lunch. Vashti Nadira avoids her. In the lunch line Oliver, who she hasn’t seen in weeks, slides up next to her. He buys an extra donut and slips it onto her tray without a word, disappearing before she can protest. Shane waves her over to his table as Liam departs, presumably for the art room. The whispers and stares are still there, but the general din of three hundred teenagers laughing and talking obscures them. Amy finds Lauren sandwiched between Lisbeth and Tommy and gives her a small smile. There is no trace of Karma anywhere.

Amy gets to class first. She is already seated when Karma runs in at the last ring of the bell. Without looking at her, Karma crosses to the other side of the room and takes a seat as far from Amy as she can get. She pulls her notebook out of her bag, staring at it until the teacher starts to speak and she refocuses her attention on him.

It is impossible for Amy not to study her. She looks rough. Wan and pale, there are dark circles under her eyes that makeup has not quite been able to hide. Amy looks for a sign, any trace of the connection that defined her life up until this point. Finally Karma meets her eyes, and there it is hovering between them. Amy can feel the pain radiating from her as if it is a part of her own body. God she just wants to fix it. To fix both of them! But then Karma looks away and reality floods back in. 

 

The days go on like that, easy mornings and painful afternoons. She never sees Karma in the cafeteria and hardly ever crosses paths with her in the hallways. When Amy does catch sight of her outside of class she is usually in the company of a few members of the drama club. Amy feels a slight tug of irritation at that, because she had tried to get Karma to join the club for two years with no success. ‘Maybe you were the thing holding her back,’ a bitter voice whispers in the back of her mind. 

Soon enough the days become weeks. They continue to sit far apart from one another in class. If they make eye contact one of them quickly breaks it. Amy finds herself missing the sound of Karma’s voice, of her laugh. It’s not fair. Even though she is right there, in the same room breathing the same air, they are an ocean apart.

Outside of school Amy mostly stays in her room, trying to avoid everyone and everything. Shane comes by a few nights a week. He claims its because his house is too distracting for him to focus on homework, but it’s pretty clear he’s checking up on her. On weekends he invites her to the parties and events that form the backbone of his social life. Amy always declines.

It’s clear she has spent too much time at home when Farrah starts to give her wedding related errands to do. She is sent to pick up sample flower arrangements and hunt down lilac gift bags. Bruce asks her to set up their online gift registry. When she complains Farrah primly reminds her that she was the one who said she wanted to be involved during the bridal shower. 

As it turns out, the wedding is a pretty great distraction. Amy throws herself into the tasks. One morning at breakfast she finds herself nodding along as Farrah and Lauren discuss centerpieces before she realizes with horror that she has understood every word. 

With only a week to go until the ceremony Bruce decides to skip having a bachelor party in favor of a poker night with a few of his friends. Amy does her part as best gal by setting out a bowl of chips with guacamole and ordering them a few pizzas. She getting ready to deep dive into a Say Yes to the Dress marathon (which holds more meaning for her now that she understands some of the mechanics of weddings) when Shane shows up all hair gel and scented body spray demanding that she come out with him. His exact words: “Come oooooon! It’s time for you to take off your drama pajamas and put on some party pants!”

Shane will not be swayed. Amy ends up closing the computer and heading to the bathroom to see if her hair can be salvaged. She can hear Shane banging around in her room and then his muffled voice sounds from the hall, “Hey Queen Bitch! What should Amy wear? We’re going to slut it up!” 

Amy can’t hear Lauren’s response, but when she reenters her room a black tank top and a pair of skinny jeans are laid out on her bed. She makes Shane turn around as she slips them on. A minute later Lauren barges in and wordlessly hands over a long gold necklace and some matching earrings. Amy takes them and puts them on.

Shane gives a whistle, “Damn girl!”

Amy shakes her head with an amused smirk. She glances at Lauren who gives a tight nod of approval before marching straight back to her room.

“Let’s goooooo!” Shane implores, springing off the bed like a cartoon character.

“Hang on,” Amy tells him. She’s not sure what’s come over her, but she finds herself standing in front of Lauren’s door. She hesitates for a second and then knocks.

“What now?” Lauren pulls the door open catching Amy with her fist still raised.

“Hey, do you want to come with us?” Amy asks in a rush, “I mean, Shane says it will be mostly gay guys dancing to 90s pop music, so not really your scene but…” Amy trails off with a helpless shrug.

Lauren stares at her like she has grown a second head. Amy is starting to think she’s made some sort of grievous error when Lauren finally says, “Give me two minutes,” and shuts the door in her face.

Approximately two minutes later she emerges dressed in a sparkly silver top and a tight black skirt. Shane’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise when he sees her, but after a quick glance at Amy he just shrugs his acceptance.

“All right ladies, let’s roll out!” He says, grabbing them both by the hands and barreling them down the steps. 

Inside the club Shane immediately abandons them for the nearest cute guy, leaving Amy and Lauren awkwardly huddled together at the bar. No one cards them but Amy orders water anyway. She watches the people, mostly guys with a few girls scattered around the edges, jumping and moving in time as a dark haired DJ Amy can barely see on the second balcony pumps loud music out over the sound system. She has never been to a party like this, with or without Karma. The combination of the music and the sound of the crowd wash over her, ebbing away at the sadness of the last few weeks. 

“Fuck it,” Amy says, setting her drink down on the bar decisively and launching herself into the crowd. Unfamiliar bodies twist around her. Amy looks back over her shoulder. Lauren watches her with a strange look on her face, surprise and something else that Amy can’t quite place. “Are you coming or what?” she yells over the din, and Lauren dives in after her.

They dance until they are sweaty and sore, until Shane runs out of new boys to flirt with, until Amy has to physically sit down because she can no longer feel her feet. She is exhausted, but it’s a happy exhaustion. Shane drives them home, complaining all the while about how the cutest guy left before he could get his number. Amy watches Lauren take her hair down in the rear view mirror. The messy waves of it turn orange as they pass each streetlight. 

It’s a little after two in the morning when Lauren quietly shuts the front door behind them. Even so, before they can make it to the stairs the hall light comes on and Farrah appears in the doorway of the living room.

“Hey mom,” Amy says weakly.

“Honey, do you know what time it is?” Farrah asks, in a tone that makes it seem less like a question and more like a threat.

Lauren steps forward, “Farrah, I know it’s late, but we didn’t consume any drugs or alcohol or engage in any other illicit activities, and honestly I think you should be proud that you have such responsible young women living under this roof rather than reaching for some outdated mode of unrealistic punishment ”

Farrah blinks at her blearily. “Go to bed girls,” she sighs.

Amy doesn’t hesitate to follow Lauren up the stairs.

 

In true Lauren fashion, by morning it’s like the night before never happened. She’s back to rolling her eyes and offering snide remarks before Amy’s even had breakfast. Amy ignores her. There is too much to do as the wedding approaches. Amy has no time to waste figuring out why her soon to be stepsister has renewed her commitment to being a bitch. 

Then the wedding is upon them. Chaos reins in the house.

Lauren, armed with her headset and clipboard, is everywhere at once, barking orders at florists, caterers, and furniture deliverymen alike. Amy is initially put in charge of the flowers, but after a rose bud accidently breaks off one of the floral centerpieces while she is moving it Lauren reassigns her to directing the layout of the furniture. By late afternoon nearly everything is place, which leaves Lauren obsessively checking the length of tablecloths and testing strings of lights. When Amy walks in on her reducing the caterer to tears over the shape of the crudité she not so gently suggests that she can handle it, tugging the clipboard from Lauren’s hands and sending her upstairs to get ready.

Of course the minute Lauren leaves everything goes to hell. One of the servers leans to close to a butane heater and lights his sleeve on fire. In his attempt to put out the fire he knocks over two tables, half a dozen chairs, crushes two centerpieces. Amy grabs the nearest centerpiece, pulls out the flowers, and douses his sleeve with the water from the base, putting the fire out. The server continues to flail around in panic until Amy physically grabs him by his shirt collar and shouts “Get it together man! Do you want her to come back down here?”

Getting the tables reset, fresh linens, and two of the three extra flower arrangements Lauren ordered in place takes about twice as long as it needed too. By the time the server finally returns with a fresh un-singed jacket Amy’s left temple is starting to throb with a headache. 

“If you screw up again, I will kill you and leave your body somewhere no one will ever find it,” She threatens and the server runs back to his post eyes wide with fear.

Someone laughs behind her. Amy wheels around ready fire the next person that so much as breathes, only to be brought up short by the sight of Lauren covering a genuine smile with one hand. In the gauzy lilac bridesmaid dress with her white blond hair swept in a low bun, Lauren looks like she stepped straight out of a magazine. It’s actually disconcerting how pretty she is.

“If you’re done eviscerating the help, it’s your turn to get ready,” she says, gesturing upstairs.

Farrah has hired a stylist from the salon she frequents to come to the house and fix everyone’s hair and makeup. All of the other chattering bridesmaids have already come and gone. Amy is the last one to be touched up. The woman quickly works pieces of her hair into braids and those braids into a bun, leaving a few loose tendrils of hair to frame her face. Amy barely has any time to admire the effect before she is engulfed in a thick cloud of hairspray. Her hacking cough somewhat undercuts the elegance of the design. 

Her makeup is applied with a similar efficiency that Amy can’t help but appreciate. The whole process takes less than five minutes of sketching outlines and brushing on powders. When the woman is done she holds up a mirror for Amy to see. To her surprise she sees a girl that still looks very much like herself. The eyelids are a little darker, the cheeks more defined, the lips a brighter pink, but Amy doesn’t feel like she’s looking at a stranger. “That’s it?” She can’t help but ask. 

The stylist shrugs, “You don’t need much honey.”

Amy steals one last glance at herself before hurrying to her room and changing into the slacks, shirt, and vest Lauren picked out weeks ago. She eyes the heels positioned at the foot of her bed warily, but picks them up anyway and slides them onto her feet. 

Lauren is ushering Bruce’s groomsmen and a suit wearing Tommy into the front yard when Amy comes down the stairs and steps right behind her.

“Picture time?” she asks in a low voice.

Lauren jumps about a foot, which is doubly impressive when you consider she is in heels.

“You are such an asshole!” Lauren yelps. Amy just grins.

Once she regains her composure Lauren gives Amy an appraising look. Amy fights the urge to curtsy or spin. Lauren taps a finger against her lips, “Hang on.”

She turns to one of the large floral pieces currently bookending the entry way and plucks out a few delicate flower buds in white and purple. She clears away any stray leaves and then, rising onto the tips of her toes, fixes one bud at a time in the braided portions of Amy’s hair. At first Amy is too stunned by Lauren messing up one of the flower arrangements she has been harping on all morning to realize what’s going on. Then Lauren sways a little on her toes as she reaches higher, and Amy ducks her head to give her better access. Once the flowers are arranged to her liking Lauren pulls bobby pins, seemingly out of nowhere, and begins pinning them into place. When the work is finished Lauren takes a step back. Amy straightens.

“That will have to do.” Lauren says with a sigh, “Let’s go. We have pictures to take.”

 

The wedding goes off without a hitch. There’s no reason it shouldn’t with Lauren’s exacting preparation. Farrah and Bruce look so happy. Bruce has tears in his eyes as he says his vows. Farrah kisses him after the ‘I do’s’ with such tenderness it makes Amy blush. Both daughters give toasts. Lauren talks about the fears she had about her father finding love again and how happy she is to have Farrah in her life. When she gets off stage Farrah hugs her tightly and whispers something that causes a stray tear to trail down Lauren’s cheek. Amy talks about golf, or rather, the afternoon she and Bruce spent together not too long ago. She talks about practice and patience. About the patience it takes to truly love someone. 

“At every wedding they seem to read out that bible verse. You know it… ‘Love is patient, love is kind.’ We hear those words so often it’s easy to forget how important they really are. To find someone who cares about you enough to be patient, who will give you the time figure yourself out and space to grow as a person… that’s rare. Rarer than hitting a hole in one on hole seven at the Pinebrook Country Club even.”

“It’s my white whale!” Bruce exclaims from the high table where he and Farrah sit. 

A few of the groomsmen chuckle knowingly. Amy watches Farrah rubs Bruce’s shoulder in mock comfort. 

“Anyway, Mom… Bruce… I wish you kindness, and patience, and so much happiness. Here’s to Farrah and Bruce.”

“To Farrah and Bruce!” the guests cry. The room fills with applause.

Amy steps off the stage. It’s not the speech she would have given two months ago. She’d rehearsed versions in the mirror about the nature of friendship, how deepens into love, and how lucky it is to be loved by your best friend. Perhaps she still could have given that speech today. It’s a good sentiment. But it was never really for them, was it? That speech was for someone else, and she never got to hear it. 

Amy returns to her place at the high table where Farrah is waiting to pull her into a hug. Bruce wraps an arm around her shoulder and plants a kiss to her temple. Soon enough music starts to play and the dance floor fills with people. Amy wanders through the crowd greeting familiar faces. Her grandmother is about three quarters of the way toward being completely plastered, but she’s not bothering anyone so Amy lets it go. It’s a celebration. People should get to be happy.

She sits heavily at a table. For the first time in weeks she feels familiar tears pricking at her eyelids. She had never imagined the wedding without Karma at her side. In fact, Amy had never really imagined any future without Karma in it.

Someone slides a large piece of wedding cake in front of her. Amy knows without looking who it is.

“Is it poisoned?” she asks wryly.

“No but it’s what I want to eat when I get dumped” Lauren replies, poking morosely at her own enormous slice of cake. Her posture is less ridged than usual. Her shoulders slumping forward as she rests her elbows on the table.

“I didn’t get dumped.” Amy protests.

“I was eavesdropping from the bathroom when you were talking to Shane,” says Lauren matter-of-factly.

“I’m guessing you plan on extorting me?” Amy guesses.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Lauren snaps, “I’m trying to empathize. I know a thing or two about being rejected when you’re at your most vulnerable. I shared a secret with Tommy and he dumped me.”

Amy realizes belatedly that she hasn’t seen Tommy at all since the beginning of the reception. Looking closer she can see that Lauren’s eyes are pink and puffy.

“Was it the pills?” she asks.

Shane had said something about Lauren popping pills like it was some deep dark secret. As if Amy hadn’t witnessed Lauren taking them day in day out since she and her father had moved in. Whatever the pills were, Amy was pretty sure Shane had the wrong idea.

Lauren’s jaw clenches, “It’s called a secret for a reason.” 

Amy shrugs, not caring enough to push.

“I should just tell you,” Lauren relents, “He’s probably going to blab to the whole school on Monday.”

Amy rests her head in her hand watching Lauren out of the side of her eye, “You’re not going to tell me are you?” 

“Absolutely not,” Lauren asserts.

Amy almost smiles. 

“Tommy’s an asshole,” Amy offers.

“Yeah well Karma’s a bitch,” says Lauren.

Amy takes a bite of her cake. Bruce and Farrah dance under the strings of lights. She and Lauren both watch them make slow circles around the center of the dance floor. They never tire and never let go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Texas nights are a reminder that warmth is only a tenuous illusion brought on by daylight."

Outsiders tend to think Texas never gets cold, even in the winter. It’s hard to say that they’re wrong when daytime temperatures in Austin hover around the mid sixties. Texas nights, however, are a reminder that warmth is only a tenuous illusion brought on by daylight. As soon as the sun begins to set the air turns crisp, and those caught outside without appropriate protection find it very unpleasant indeed. 

Amy has taken to siting out on the porch at night despite the cold weather. In the month since their wedding Bruce and Farrah are rarely more than three feet from one another. They invade each other’s space with casual touches, carrying on murmured conversations over washing dishes. On the first night of December the house brims with warmth overflowing from their happiness in their new marriage. Amy can’t stand it.

The porch is her retreat. She ignores the cushioned wicker love seat in favor of a high backed wooden chair which she tilts back on two legs by propping her feet against the waist high railing that runs up from the front steps. The cold numbs her fingers and lips. She breathes it in, letting it settle in her chest and clear her mind. Amy has never given much consideration to drugs or drinking but after the breakup their appeal has become more understandable. If someone handed her a pill and told her it would instantly erase her pain wouldn’t she take it? Well… she wouldn’t… She is one of those kids for whom programs like DARE actually work. To this day she remains terrified of the pictures of diseased body parts and lists of side effects they passed around in health class when she was thirteen. Still, it’s an interesting thought, an induced chemical reaction that accelerates production of all of the brain’s favorite chemicals. 

Sometimes voices filter out through closed windows, snatches of conversations and laughter. Lisbeth and Leila have come to work on a history assignment with Lauren. They sit around the dining room table trading historical facts and gossiping about people from school. Lauren’s minions have been coming over more often since Lauren and Tommy broke up. Amy’s ears pick up Lauren explaining the Coinage Act of 1873 and the subsequent Free Silver movement to Lisbeth for a third time followed by a sharp reprimand, “GD Lisbeth, if you’re not going to try why are you even wasting my time?” To which Lisbeth offers a mumbled apology.

It’s a fascinating dynamic, Amy thinks, the way the girls interact, Lauren all sharp words and rigidity in contrast to Lisbeth and Leila’s muted softness. At first glance they appear to be nothing more than Lauren’s mindless minions. They clearly look to her as a leader, with a tendency to go along with whatever she says. They are easily influenced by passing fads. Amy has seen them in school, quick to jump on the most recent bandwagon, including her relationship with Karma. The casual observer might assume they are nothing but weak willed sycophants, but the longer Amy listens to them the more she believes the casual observer would be wrong. Despite Lauren’s best efforts there something about these two girls that is completely unchangeable. When Lauren snipes at them the comments only make a glancing impact. There is solidity to their identities, and to their relationship to each other. They seem comfortable with who they are, more so than Amy or Karma or even Lauren herself. To the rest of Hester it might look like Lauren is doing them a favor by letting them hang around, the secret is that they are letting Lauren in, not the other way around. Leila and Lisbeth would be exactly the same whether or not Lauren had moved to town, but without their willingness to include her in their lives Lauren would have been alone. 

Lauren corrects something in Lisbeth’s notes. It’s an assignment Amy should be working on now as well. Instead she puts her feet up on the railing, rocking her chair back and forth getting lost in the rhythm. She fixes her eyes on the point where the glow of the streetlights fades into the dark of the night sky. She stays there until the lights start to go out, one by one, leaving only the unabated dark. 

 

Lauren is coping with her break up better than Amy. Amy believes this is partly because Tommy was a dumbass and partly because Lauren is always busy. She dances. She goes to church. She competes in pageants. She wages war against Shane for control of the school. Since the wedding Amy hasn’t being doing anything in her spare time besides attempting to watch every depressing human rights documentary in her Netflix queue. Finally the overwhelming crush of human atrocities becomes too much, even for her. She decides to take a page out of Lauren’s book and find a distraction. Rather than joining a club at Hester Amy decides to look for a part time job. If she’s going to invest her time in something she might as well get paid for it. With Christmas approaching plenty of places are hiring. She scrolls through ads, writing down addresses as she goes. When she’s got a decent sized list of potential employers that only partially compromise her ethical requirements she prints out copies of her resume and drives downtown.

The streets and businesses have been decked out for the holidays for at least two weeks now. Friendly twinkle lights glint in the windows of the storefronts where Amy drops off her resume. She passes The Twain and sees a help wanted sign in the window next to a mini Christmas tree wrapped in multi-colored lights and rainbow ornaments. On a whim she drops a resume there as well.

The biggest change at school in the last two months is the amount of time Amy spends with Liam. For the first few weeks after the incident he makes himself scarce, disappearing to the art room moments after lunch began. Amy almost forgets that technically she is invading his territory. But it is his territory and he was there long before Amy. Despite what happened with Amy and Karma, Shane is still Liam’s best friend. He still hangs out with Ivy and the other “cool” kids that fill the rest of the seats at the lunch table. So when Liam starts to linger a little bit longer before going to the art room it’s not really surprising. 

Amy waits it out, doing her best to ignore him until he leaves. But each day he seems to stay a little longer, extending the visit by two minutes, then five, until after a few weeks he is staying through the entire lunch period. Before Amy realizes it she’s grown almost comfortable having him around, at least in small doses. One day she accidentally catches Liam’s eye and he sends her a conspiratorial smile. It dawns on her that his extended lunch visits were part of a plan, which makes her feel like the proverbial frog that’s been slowly boiled to death because it can’t sense the gradual change in water temperature. It seems like Liam’s plan also gets the rest of the school on board with them spending time together. Nobody stares or makes jokes. There are no items in the school blog. The whole thing happens so slowly it barely causes a ripple in the school’s social order. Liam doesn’t generally say much, but it dawns on Amy he may actually be smart - something that has legitimately never occurred to her before.

 

Amy is watching Liam try to explain his latest art installation to Shane– something with sculpture and live photography - when her phone pings with an email. She opens it. It’s from the manager at The Twain asking when she is available for an interview. Amy quickly composes a response thanking them for the opportunity and listing her availability as, whatever works best for you. She gets an immediate reply asking her to come in that afternoon. She shows the message to Shane, who giddily claps his hands. Liam grins. Ivy, whose instagram feed is eighty-five percent latte art starts grilling her on the finer points of coffee preparation. 

Amy spends the rest of the day trying not to get too nervous about the impending interview. Instead of doing the assigned worksheet during her last period she surreptitiously looks up coffee making tips on her phone and double checks that the Twain only uses fair trade beans. 

When she arrives for the interview Amy is greeted by a woman in her late twenties whose intense series of ear piercings are perfectly displayed by her half shaved head. The woman, Max, ushers her into a small back room that contains little more than a table, chairs, and a couple of coats and aprons hanging from hooks on the wall. Max gestures to one of the chairs and Amy takes a seat.

“Thanks for coming in on such short notice.” Max says, taking the seat across from her.

Amy cheerfully shakes her head, “It’s no problem.” 

Max nods distractedly pulling out a notepad and pen from her apron pocket. “Great, so have you been here before?

“Once.” Amy says with what she hopes sounds more like enthusiasm than regret.

Max nods again, “Cool. So maybe you already know this, but during the day the Twain is a pretty normal coffee house; lattes, scones, students who drink the same cup of tea for six hours while they work on essays, you know the drill. Around eight thirty we close down, and then we reopen at nine as a club. We do have a liquor license, but you would not have license to be anywhere near the liquor.” 

She shoots Amy a pointed look that makes Amy want to confess to crimes she hasn’t even committed yet. 

“You’ll find we cater to a pretty diverse crowd here,” Max continues, “I like to think of this as a safe place for people that also happens to make damn fine coffee.”

Amy doesn't know if she is supposed to say something or not, about the crowd or the coffee... She decides it's safest just to nod.

“So Amy,” Max says, clicking her pen and putting it to the notepad, “Do you have any experience as a barista?”

“Yes?” answers Amy. It’s not a complete lie. She does know her way around a pot of coffee. 

“That’s a no then.” Max says, making a note that Amy can’t read.

“I mean I know how to use a coffee maker.” Amy explains quickly.

Max looks up and smiles, “It’s okay. We are going to have to train whoever we hire, and it might actually be easier not to have to train the Starbucks out of you. How are your people skills?”

Briefly Amy’s history of isolating one-on-one friendship and brief social combustion flashes before her eyes.

“Excellent.” She lies. 

Fortunately Max doesn’t seem to notice. “We are in a bit of a time crunch,” she says, “One of our part time staffers just quit and another full timer left to become the percussionist in a ukulele based Van Halen cover band.” 

At the look on Amy’s face she shakes her head, “Don’t ask.” 

“What we are looking for is someone that can start immediately. It would be four or five days a week, afternoons or evenings shifts mostly. No nights - at least not while you’re in high school. It can be a bit of a high stress environment sometimes. Do you think you can handle that?” Max asks.

Amy wants to laugh. High stress is where she lives these days.

Amy tells Max she will take as many shifts as Max wants to give her and emphasizes that she can start as soon as they need. She is home, just closing the front door behind her, when her phone rings. Max’s voice rings out through the speaker asking if she can start tomorrow.

At dinner she tells Farrah and Bruce. Both look startled. Amy realizes she never mentioned that she was looking for a job in the first place. Bruce recovers first, congratulating her on thinking responsibly about her future. 

“It’s really never too early to start saving, especially if you want to go to college.” He remarks, making Lauren mouth twitch with displeasure at his approval.

“Well I can’t wait to come by and visit!” exclaims Farrah.

Amy falters, “Mom I’m not sure it’s your kind of place.”

“What does that mean?” Farrah asks dismayed, “Do you think I’m gonna embarrass you? 

“No, Mom!” Amy protests, “It’s just… It’s a primarily gay clientele.”

“I see,” Farrah says briskly, “Does that means they won’t serve me?” 

“Of course not!” Amy says aghast.

“Then I see reason not to stop by while you’re working.” She says it so primly that Amy can’t help but grin.

 

Her first afternoon at the Twain passes in a blur. Max throws an apron at her as soon as she walks in. After a few minutes of paperwork Amy is stationed behind the counter and put to work.

Amy’s new coworkers are Max, Dylan, and Tyler. All three take turns training her first on the register, then on the coffee machines. Max looks even more punk than she did in Amy's interview. She has added a nose ring and an eyebrow stud to the collection of ear piercings and her sleeveless shirt reveals an intricate sleeve tattoo down her left arm of clockwork gears. The shaved part of her head gives way to long cascading brown curls that compliment the freckles dotted over her light brown skin. She dances around while she’s working and miraculously never spills anything. Dylan catches her watching as Max nimbly catches a mug she’s knocked off the counter after a particularly spirited reaction to ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ before it can crash to the floor.

He points, “That’s why she’s the manager.”

Dylan is skinny and pale. His wears small black gages in both ears and has startlingly blue eyes. There doesn’t seem to be a single moment when he is not cracking jokes or bemoaning his life with equal enthusiasm, unless he’s cramming food in his mouth. Without any prompting Dylan informs Amy that he is desperately trying to bulk up his figure. He spends most of his off time at the gym to only minimal effect. By the end of their first shift together Amy has learned more information about nutrition than she has from any of the health classes she’s taken at Hester. 

Compared to Max and Dylan, Tyler is a welcome breath of calm and quiet. Dylan addresses him as “Oh Tyler” a play on his Korean last name, Oh. He has dark eyes and darker hair, which he keeps neatly gelled to the side. The first thing Amy notices about Tyler is that he is dapper as fuck. Vests, bow ties, pocket squares, and a seemly endless collection of creased slacks make him easily the best dressed person Amy has ever met. The second thing Amy notices is his voice. It’s… different. She can’t quite put her finger on why. Eventually she ends up asking him if he’s been suffering from a cold, which makes Dylan cackle with laughter. Tyler just smiles, he is almost always smiling, and tells her he’s FTM. Amy has no idea what that means until she googles “FTM” on her break. Apparently it stands for “Female to Male” making Tyler the first trans person she’s ever met.

Amy quickly realizes that while the Twain is definitely an LGBT hotspot only about a third of their clients truly fit under that banner. The other two thirds of the clientele consists of hippies, hipsters, hyper liberals, and a large swath of “norm-core” people that believe good coffee takes precedence over any personal or political leanings. Sometimes it’s easy to tell these groups apart, other times Amy has to stop herself gawking when a man that looks like he could be Bruce’s brother kisses a man ten years his junior goodbye next to the napkin dispenser. 

She gets hit on too, which is it’s own kind of revelation. In her first shift a heavily mascaraed girl with twin lip piercings refuses to order a drink, asking Amy to “surprise” her. Amy, already overwhelmed by the unnecessarily complicated cash register, blinks at her uncomprehending until Dylan swoops in to take the girl’s order. Later a guy wearing thick-framed glasses and a flannel shirt tells her she has a beautiful smile. She spends a full minute, paranoid, trying to figure out why he was watching her, until she realizes it’s a line.

Amy gives him a look that says, ‘you must be joking’ and the guy wanders away. Dylan immediately pounces. “Looks like you’re our new hot commodity!”

“I’m really not.” Amy balks.

“So are you gay?” He asks, like it’s a totally normal question that doesn’t carry a Mack truck’s worth of personal baggage. Amy is almost too startled to respond. 

“Dylan, leave the kid alone.” Max warns from where she’s cleaning the machines.

“No it’s okay,” Amy says, “I am. Gay, I mean.”

It’s her first honest coming out, the first one without Karma as her fake girlfriend. Dylan jets off to tease Tyler that he’s the only straight one on the day shift (“Oh Tyler! So straight! So outnumbered!”) leaving Amy alone for a moment. She take a deep breath and goes back to work. A few minutes later she realizes she really is smiling. 

By the end of the week she’s got it figured out. She can run the register, make most of the drinks, and she knows how to clean and care for the equipment. Max and Tyler announce they are taking her out to celebrate. Dylan can’t join them. He is filling in on the night shift for the bartender, Luis, whom Amy has only met in passing. Max leads them to a bar down the street that serves beer and waffles and buys Amy one of the latter. 

She comes home close to eleven. She’s fumbling with her keys when a clear voice startles her so much she drops them.

“Hey. “

It’s Lauren sitting in Amy’s chair, almost invisible in the darkness of the porch. Amy clamps down on her urge to yell at Lauren for scaring her.

Instead she asks, “What are you doing out here?” in a carefully even tone of voice.

“I don’t know.” Lauren shrugs, “What do you do out here?”

Amy leans against the doorframe. It’s been a long day. Too long to try to figure out whatever game Lauren is playing. “I think about things,” Amy tells her, “And I try not to think about things.”

Lauren nods without looking at her. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her torso. “Lisbeth and Leila are at their knitting circle tonight and the house is too… I wanted to see if this helped. I mean you do it all the time so I thought it might… but it’s boring. And cold.”

She is wearing a sweater but Amy can hear the slight shiver in her voice, either evidence of the cold or evidence of something else Amy is in no way prepared to deal with. She scoops the keys off of the ground and opens the door. The light from the hallway highlights the contours of Lauren’s cheek.

“Are you going to come inside?” Amy asks. 

Lauren shakes her head, “Not yet.” 

Amy observes the slight shake in her shoulders, the clenching of her jaw. She reaches for the zipper of her jacket and strips it off feeling the cool air on her bare arms. She holds it out to Lauren. Lauren’s eyes find Amy’s. Amy is glad for the dark because in the light… this moment would never happen in the light. The night protects them both from the vulnerability in Lauren’s gaze. When she can’t bear it anymore Amy drapes the jacket over the arm of Lauren’s chair and goes inside.

 

Shane announces at lunch that he will be hosting his annual New Years party. Liam actually fist pumps. Amy raises an eyebrow at the action. 

“What?” Liam shrugs at her, “This means I can skip my parent’s party!” 

“That’s all I am to you? Shane huffs. “An excuse to skip?”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Liam says placidly, munching on some french fries, “You also give good fashion advice.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, “Which you ignore.” He turns his attention to Amy, “Don’t think you’re getting out of this Miss Thing. Your attendance in mandatory.”

“Yeah you have to go,” Liam agrees, “Shane’s parties are legendary.”

“Oh I remember…” Amy mutters.

The rest of the table murmurs happily about the party but Shane keeps his eye on Amy. Finally she gives in.

“Fine. I’ll come.”

 

It’s Thursday afternoon and Amy is off from work, which is lucky because it leaves time for her to have her brain pulverized by an essay on ‘Brave New World’ due the next day. It doesn’t help that Lauren is literally pacing in the hallway and Amy can hear every step as if Lauren was wearing shoes made from lead. Pacing is the newest thing Lauren is doing to distract herself, and it has the added benefit of driving Amy completely crazy.  
Amy thinks through her options. It’s too late to go anywhere, Bruce and Farrah are watching TV downstairs, and she’s fairly sure silently murdering Lauren and dissolving her body in the bathtub would be much more trouble than it’s worth. Probably bad for the plumbing too. That leaves option D, with the D standing for Distraction. 

Option D typically consists of taking Lauren’s ferocious energy and refocusing it on something positive rather than something annoying. Amy wracks her brain for a distraction then catches sight of her paper glowing from the computer screen. She shakes her head. No. Then again... Not happening. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no –

“Hey Lauren, can you help me with my English essay?”

Lauren stops pacing and looks incredulously at where Amy’s head is now poking out of her doorway.

“And why would I do that?” Lauren asks archly.

Amy considers for a second, “I will trade you help on chemistry.” 

Lauren hesitates. 

“Come on, I know you got a C on your last chem test.” Amy pushes.

Lauren’s eyes narrow, “Show me the damn essay.”

It takes ten minutes for Lauren to read the essay but only two for Amy to get angry. Lauren’s first move is to underline more than half of the sentences in red before deleting the opening sentence to each paragraph. Amy feels her face burning with embarrassment. 

“Okay I think that’s enough.” Amy says, closing the laptop and almost catching Lauren’s fingers in the process.

“What do you mean?” Lauren asks, confused.

“This was a bad idea. If you are just going to highlight everything to point out how dumb I am I don’t see the point.” Amy snaps.

“Oh my god, get over yourself!” Lauren bites back, “I’m not pointing out how you’re dumb you idiot! I am finding places where you aren’t fully explaining your point. Look!” She opens the laptop and points to a section of the paper, “You are making logical leaps with the assumption the reader is making the same ones. You have to guide the reader more. You can’t expect them to know exactly what you’re thinking!”

Lauren’s expression hovers somewhere between irritation and earnestness. Amy feels her anger melting away. This isn’t Lauren trying to be a bitch, this is Lauren trying to be helpful. It’s almost endearing that they’re pretty much the same thing.

“What?” Lauren snaps.

“So this is what it’s like to be Lisbeth and Leila huh?” Amy comments ruefully. 

Lauren lets out the ghost of a smile, “They’re not as dumb as they look either.”

It takes two more drafts before Lauren decides the essay is acceptable. When it’s done Amy throws a chemistry book at her and drills her in the radioactive half lives of elements on the periodic table until dinner. 

 

 

Shane pops into the Twain on a Friday to visit Amy at work. He orders a “something with lots of caffeine, chocolate, and whipped cream,” and fiddles with his phone while he waits for it. By now Amy has learned the signs of when he’s avoiding something.

“So?” she asks.

“So?” he responds playing dumb.

“Soooo…” she drags it out until he cracks a smile.

“So… I need to ask you something.”

Amy gestures for him to go ahead.

“I want to invite Karma to the New Years party. She’s still my friend and I don’t want her to feel excluded around the holidays, but I will only do it if you are okay with it. Are you okay with it?” He spits out in a rush of air.

Amy doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Yeah. She loves that stuff. I’ll probably only be there for like, half an hour anyway.”

Shane lifts himself up of the counter and smacks a kiss on the top of her head.

“You’re the best!” He exclaims.

She hands him his chocolate caffeine monstrosity and sends him on his way.

 

 

Lauren must have been lying in wait, because as soon as Amy gets home and climbs up the stairs she appears in her doorway. 

“There was a pop quiz in chem today.” Lauren states.

“Cool.” Amy replies not bothering to even feign interest.

Lauren crosses her arms impatiently. “I got an A.” 

“That’s good.” 

Amy walks past her into her room, tossing her bag on a chair and flopping down on her bed. Lauren follows her, hovering at the foot of her bed.

“I want to keep up this arrangement.” She says, “English for chem.” 

Amy regards her blearily, “Okay?”

Lauren holds her position at the food of the bed. Arms crossed, foot tapping expectantly. 

“You want to start now?” Amy asks in disbelief, “It’s Friday!” 

Lauren just stares. 

“Okay, okay.” Amy mumbles. She barely drags herself upright before Lauren is tossing a heavy text book at her chest.

 

 

In the week leading up to Christmas the Twain becomes almost unbearably fully of holiday spirit. Dylan works every shift wearing a Santa hat covered in Stars of David. He sings Hebrew prayers to the tune of Christmas carols so often that Max starts to join in. Even Tyler sports holiday themed ties decorated with trees and reindeer.

At the house a package arrives for Amy. It’s Karma’s Christmas gift, ordered long before they even started dating. Amy debates what to do with it. She should probably return it, but it was such a perfect gift. She spent weeks picking it out and working to get the right details. She tucks the package, unopened, on a high shelf in her closet and tries not to think about it.

The night before Christmas Eve the Twain staff closes an hour early and does their secret santa. Amy gives Tyler an old school newsboy cap he immediately puts on. Somehow it already goes with everything he is already wearing and makes him look especially dashing. Max receives vouchers for free classes at a local dance studio from Dylan and Tyler presents Dylan with a new protein diet cookbook. Max gives Amy the first season of The L Word on DVD then immediately warns her that all she will get from it is irrational plot lines and heartbreak. Amy thanks her anyway. 

It’s their first Christmas as a family. The tree has new ornaments Amy has never seen before, merging the Coopers with the Raudenfelds. There are now pictures of Lauren at five and eight next to ones of Amy as an unhappy two year old on Santa’s lap. Bruce’s family passed down a tradition of decorating their tree with popcorn strings. Lauren, Amy and Farrah pass needle and thread through popped kernels under Bruce’s supervision. At least Amy’s favorite tradition remains intact. On Christmas Eve they sit down to a dinner of fancy snacks: three different kinds of bruschetta, cocktail shrimp, sliced gouda and sharp cheddar on water crackers, apple slices with caramel. Then they all pile onto couches in the living room to watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’. Farrah keeps up her end of the tradition as well, and by the time the movie ends she is in tears. 

On Christmas Day their home is invaded by family. Amy’s grandmother is joined by Bruce’s parents and his brother Jim. The whole experience feels strange. Bruce’s extended family doesn’t know any of the Raudenfelds well enough to know what to ask. For an awkward moment Jim tries to ask Amy whether or not she’s going to see her father over the holidays but the question is mercifully brushed aside when Farrah announces dinner is served. The food gives everyone something to focus on and talk about. 

Lauren’s grandmother gives both girls gifts. Amy’s own grandmother hasn’t bothered since she was twelve, which Amy never minded because she only ever gave socks. Mrs. Cooper’s gift is a sky blue cardigan, of a type Amy would never wear in a million years. Amy thanks her profusely, watching as Lauren pulls a similar cardigan, this time in pink, from a box of her own. As soon as Farrah calls her mother-in-law to the kitchen to take her pick of left overs Amy hands her gift over to Lauren, who accepts it without comment.

Soon the family is on its way again, exiting the house as quickly as they came. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Farrah tidies up the kitchen while Bruce settles down to watch basketball on TV. Amy heads to her room where she finds a black studded belt coiled around her door handle with a post-it note attached that reads, ‘this seems more like your thing than the sweater.’

The belt has seen a bit of wear, Amy thinks it likely came from Lauren’s closet, but it’s thoughtful. She wraps it around her hand with a smile and sticks the post it to her desk. Opening the closet to hang the belt Amy catches sight of the package containing Karma’s gift. She takes it down from it’s shelf and cuts it open. Inside is a small box containing two silver hair pins in the shape of a karmic circle with a lotus flower design blossoming over its borders. She writes Karma’s name on the box.

Bruce and Farrah have to go back to work but Lauren and Amy get to stay home through New Years. Amy doesn’t have to go to work until the afternoon, which means she is free to start watching the L Word DVDs Max gave her. Her computer is of a generation evolved beyond discs so she has to watch them downstairs in the living room. She’s halfway though the second episode when she catches Lauren watching from the hallway.

“What is this?” she asks, glaring at the screen.

Amy shakes her head, “Dude I don’t even know. My boss gave it to me for my education.”

“It looks gay.” Lauren sniffs. 

Amy laughs, “You are not wrong.” 

Amy turns her attention back to the TV and a moment later Lauren joins her on the couch. She stays for three full episodes before declaring the show terrible and wandering away, but two days later she asks Amy if Jenny left her boyfriend for the comically sexualized European woman.

 

Shane’s New Years party is a hedonistic blow out. Amy brings a bottle of vodka graciously purchased by Dylan and the small box with Karma’s name on it. Shane adds the bottle to the bar and spins her around with glee threatening that she’d better find someone to kiss tonight at midnight or there would be hell to pay.

Amy does her best to enjoy the revelry like everyone else. She accepts a few drinks, but doesn’t finish them. When Shane pulls her onto the dance floor she stays for a couple of songs even dirty dancing a little with a drunk Ivy. If Karma is there Amy hasn’t seen her. She does see Tommy, pressing some new girl up against a wall as he shoves his tongue down her throat. Maybe she spills her drink on him as she tries to pass them in the narrow hallway. If she does, it’s definitely an accident.

She hangs in as long as she can, but as it nears midnight everyone starts pairing off and Amy grabs a glass of champagne and makes her way outside. Shane’s backyard is mostly an empty expanse of grass. A rickety old swing set still occupies one corner, evidence that Shane didn’t just pop into the world as a fully formed gay teen. Amy wanders towards the swings. As she gets closer she realizes one of the swings is already occupied. There is no question of who it will be. Karma looks up at her as she approaches and gives a wry smile. Amy sits heavily on the other swing and scuffs her shoes in the worn grass.

“I brought something for you.”

Karma speaks first, as she always does. She offers Amy a little bag that has been dangling from her fingers. Amy takes it and wordlessly hands over the box. Amy almost wants to cry. Even after everything that happened they still think the same way as they ever did. They were too in sync for too long to lose it this quickly.

Karma swallows thickly, “I’m really sorry I screwed everything up.” 

Her eyes glitter with unshed tears, her full lips form themselves softly around the words.

“You didn’t do it alone.” Amy allows.

Karma gives her a watery smile, which not too long ago would have broken her in two.

“Do you think maybe someday we can be friends again?” she wonders, eyes focused on the bright light streaming from the house windows. 

Amy shrugs, “Stranger things have happened.” 

The countdown has started and muted shouts of “Ten… nine… eight…” spill out into the yard. “ONE!” The crowd yells and then cheers. It’s a new year, a fresh start. Karma slowly picks herself up of the swing. She doesn’t look back as she heads into the party. Amy stays on the swing. She peeks inside the small bag at the bracelet she knows she’ll never wear. The glass of champagne is cold in her hand. She drinks it slowly, savoring each drop, then walks the same path out of the dark yard and into the light of the house.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s not like Amy’s world tilts on its axis because Lauren might think they are friends. That would be ridiculous. Amy’s world tilts because the more she thinks about it the more she realizes Lauren may actually be right."

Bette sips her latte while Alice rolls her eyes at something Jenny just said, which Amy doesn’t quite hear because someone is banging on her door so loudly it’s practically rattling on it’s hinges. Amy sighs and pauses Netflix. She slowly drags herself off her bed, drawing out every movement. When she gets to the door she hovers for a second before yanking it open catching Lauren, fist raised mid knock, paused just like the characters on Amy’s computer screen. The fact that Lauren is dressed just like a ballerina doll Farrah gave Amy when she was six - black leotard with a gauzy pink wrap skirt, and hair pulled back in a tight bun – only enhances the absurd tableau. 

“Lauren,” Amy projecting a breezy voice she’s learned drives Lauren crazy, “what the fuck?”

Lauren recovers, crossing her arms and staring up at Amy with mulish determination, “You need to drive me to dance class.”

Amy shuts the door in Lauren’s face without a word and goes back to her bed. She is just about to restart the episode of The L Word when the door bursts open and a tiny angry Lauren starts tearing through the various piles of stuff on top of her dresser.

Amy sits up, “Dude, get out!”

“You know what I just realized?” Lauren asks ignoring Amy and moving on to pawing through the contents of her drawers, “I have a license too. So really, I don’t need you, just your car.” She yanks open another drawer, “Seriously? What is this? Porn?”

Amy leaps up and grabs a magazine sporting a bare-breasted model on its cover out of Lauren’s hands, “Shane forced it on me!”

Lauren smirks, “Yeah, I’ll bet he forced you to bookmark those pages too.”

Amy gasps, “I didn’t bookmark!” but Lauren is no longer paying attention, having returned to her task.

Unable to find what she’s looking for Lauren kicks the final drawer shut and turns back to Amy. 

“Where are they?”

Amy plays dumb, “Where are what?”

“Your car keys idiot.” Lauren snaps.

“You know, I have no idea.” Amy shrugs, “I’m forgetful like that.”

Lauren narrows her eyes, her jaw working furiously as if yearning to grind Amy into tiny pieces with nothing but her teeth. Amy has to clamp down on the urge to laugh. She can’t help it. There is something so funny about watching the equivalent of a porcelain doll seethe with rage. 

“I will tell Farrah I found porn in your room.” Lauren threatens.

“I’ll get rid of it.” Amy counters.

“I’ll plant more.”

Amy sighs, “Fine.” She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out her car keys, “But I’m driving. I have to be at work in an hour anyway.”

Lauren doesn’t stop to gloat. Instead she grabs Amy by the wrist and marches her out the door muttering, “Whatever. You’re making me late.”

 

The car situation is this:

Amy has a car. Lauren doesn’t. 

 

You would think it would be the other way around. Bruce makes much more money than Farrah ever has and could easily afford another car. In fact, when Amy first met Bruce she assumed he was the kind of parent that buys their kid a brand new BMW for their sixteenth birthday. She and Karma had even done a judgmental binge watch of “My Super Sweet 16” to come up with strategies Amy could use to get the most out of her mom’s new relationship. 

As it turned out, Bruce was nothing of the kind. Economical to a fault, Bruce had delighted in pointing out that the Raudenfeld house was close enough to the local high school for Lauren and Amy to walk. He also made it a point to drive Lauren to her dance classes downtown three times a week himself; something Amy used to interpret as crazed stage parenting, but now thought was probably his attempt to impose stability on both of their lives after the move. 

It wasn’t like Lauren couldn’t get anywhere she wanted to go. On weekends she would borrow a car from Bruce or Farrah or get picked up by Lizbeth or Tommy, who at times had seemed more like a chauffer than a boyfriend. But now there was no Tommy waiting to pick her up at a moment’s notice and Bruce was busy playing catch up on the work he had neglected while preparing for the wedding.

Lauren probably wouldn’t have even considered Amy as a transportation option if Bruce and Farrah hadn’t started bringing it up any time the girls were in the same room. It seemed that driving Lauren to dance class a total of once as a favor to Bruce when paired with their newly founded study arrangement had given their parents license to ignore the fact she and Lauren were still sworn enemies. Farrah in particular had started deploying the phrase, “It would be the sisterly thing to do.” To which Amy would emphatically point out they were NOT sisters and even if they were they would not be the kind of sisters who “helped” or “shared.” 

Amy thought Lauren felt the same way, but here she was, sitting in the passenger’s seat of the beat up Honda Civic Amy inherited when her grandmother was declared legally blind and no longer allowed to drive. She stopped yelling as soon as they were in the car, and was now quietly tapping her fingers in time to the songs on the radio. There is something about her silence makes Amy feel more like a servant than someone doing a favor, which is frankly unacceptable. Amy resolves that this ride is a one-time only event, never to be repeated. She makes sure to tell Lauren as much when she drops her at the studio. Lauren responds by flipping her off with enviable precision as she hops out of the car.

 

She ends up driving Lauren to class twice a week.

 

Despite her best efforts it’s hard to argue with the fact that the Twain is only three blocks from Lauren’s dance studio. They fall into a routine. Amy drops Lauren off and then heads over to work, typically arriving half an hour before her shift starts (something that Max loves pointing out to Dylan). When Lauren finishes her class she walks to the Twain where she takes over the same corner table by the window alternately covering it in her school books or pulling out her laptop. She orders a mug of tea and sips it slowly as she works through her homework. If she’s in a bad mood she adds a honey stick. If she’s in a really bad mood she stares longingly at people drinking mocha whips. Amy ends her shift by cleaning all of the tables and chairs before the night shift can come in and rearrange them for the evening’s festivities. She cleans the corner table last. Lauren lifts whatever she is working on off of the surface of the table allowing Amy to swipe any crumbs underneath it away. When she's done Amy takes Lauren’s empty mug of tea and slots it into the last available space in the dishwasher. Her tasks for the day completed, Amy tugs her apron over her head, stuffs it in her bag and exits the break room with a wave to Max or whoever is left at the counter. Lauren waits at the door doing her best impression of someone who is not actually waiting, but just happens to be casually hanging around. Amy wonders who it is she thinks she’s fooling.

 

The Twain’s door chimes, prompting Amy to look up in time to catch Lauren shuffling in. Amy can already tell it’s going to be a honey stick kind of day. Lauren’s usually immaculate bun is mussed. She is hunched over, burrowing into the wide necked sweater she’s thrown over her leotard top like she’s hoping it will swallow her whole. She orders a strong black tea at the counter without any preamble. Amy hands her the honey stick before she can ask. The ghost of a smile flickers across her face. It disappears just as quickly as a flashily dressed woman in her forties cuts in front of her, leaning over the counter to wave her cup directly in Amy’s startled face.

“Excuse me,” the woman says brusquely, “I asked for unsweetened almond milk. I can’t drink this.” 

Amy recovers taking the cup from where it’s suspended, inches from her nose. 

“Of course. I apologize.” she says smoothly, “May I take down your order so we can be sure to make it right this time?”

The woman rolls her eyes as if Amy’s request is a huge inconvenience. Amy grits her teeth under the guise of a pleasant smile.

“Iced double shot espresso with almond milk – unsweetened - heavy on the ice.”

Amy nods, “I’ll have that for you in just a moment.”

The woman rolls her eyes again. Amy turns away to make the drink, which must make the woman think that her ears no longer work because the next thing Amy hears is-

“I mean honestly how hard is it to get a coffee order right? It’s like nobody under the age of thirty even has a brain anymore.”

Amy doesn’t have time to react before a familiar voice pipes up in response.

“It probably took all of her brainpower to be able to ignore the glare of that many clashing prints.”

Amy’s nearly pulls a muscle in her neck as her head tries to do a full exorcist twist to catch sight of the cash register where Lauren stands stiffly at her full diminutive height giving the woman a supremely dismissive look.

“Tell me, is this color scheme a sad desperate attempt to hold on to your fading youth? Or did you forget to change when you clocked out at your job as a rodeo clown?”

The woman flushes such a bright red Amy is convinced if they hit the lights she would glow in the dark. Her lips twitch as if itching to form words she is too angry to string together. Amy quickly takes the opportunity to hand over the woman’s drink.

“Here you are ma’am,” she says in her most cheerful customer service voice, “I am so sorry for the delay. Can I offer you one of our pastries? It's on the house.” 

The woman looks back and forth; ping ponging between Amy’s bright smile and Lauren’s sneer. She seems overwhelmed, so Amy hands her a cruller. She takes it unseeingly, crushing it slightly in her hand, then stomps straight out the door. Amy glances at Lauren. Though her posture has returned to its weary slump she seems in better spirits than when she came in. Her eyes remain fixed on the door as if hoping to catch the woman coming back for round two. 

Amy taps her on the shoulder, “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll bring you your tea.”

Lauren nods absently and heads towards her regular table. The other patrons give her a wide berth as she passes. 

“Who the hell was that?” Dylan asks in an excited whisper, sliding in next to Amy at the counter.

“That’s Lauren.” 

Amy can’t quite bring herself to call Lauren her sister and does not even attempt to find any other words to explain the nature of their relationship. Dylan doesn’t seem to mind. He looks past Amy towards the corner table with avid interest. 

“Lauren…” he chews on the name like a stick of gum, “I think I’m in love!” Leaning backward against the cash register, he dramatically places the back of his hand to his forehead, “Is this what being straight feels like?”

Amy lifts an eyebrow, “I wouldn’t know.”

At that moment Max comes out of the back room and Dylan immediately snaps upright. In his haste he accidentally drives his elbow into the register and sends the cash drawer shooting out straight into his ribs. He doubles over with a winded ‘Ooof’ causing Max to roll her eyes and Amy to laugh so hard she almost falls over. 

 

The television sends flickering blue light through the darkened living room. Amy hangs, half upside down, off the edge of the couch aimlessly shifting through channels. She feels the cushions dip and lifts her head up enough to see Lauren settling herself on the other end of the couch.

“Any preferences?” Amy asks lazily, resuming her channel surfing.

She can hear Lauren’s skepticism, “You’re going to let me choose?”

Amy’s mouth quirks into a smile, “If you stop sitting like a housewife from a 1950s propaganda film I will let you put on whatever you want.”

Lauren rolls her shoulders back, straightening her already ludicrously upright posture, “I’m comfortable like this.”

Amy squints up at her, “Nobody is comfortable like that.”

Lauren remains obstinately ridged until Amy reaches her right foot over and nudges her thigh. Lauren squeaks with surprise. Amy repeats the action, then repeats it again. Lauren swats at her foot, trying to pull her legs out of reach. Amy stops when she is curled into the arm rest, legs splayed out along the back of the couch.

“That’s better.”

She hands Lauren the remote.

“Just for that we’re watching Dancing with the Stars.” Lauren mutters.

 

Amy doesn’t know anything about dance, but she’s pretty sure some people are not meant to wear sequins. Lauren however has very definite opinions about the dancing, the costumes, and the judges, which she shares out loud at length. Amy switches between watching the TV and watching Lauren react to it. The later is ultimately much more entertaining.

During a commercial break Amy nudges Lauren again with her foot. 

“Oh my god, stop or I’m cutting it off!” Lauren complains like she isn’t still sprawled in the position Amy coaxed her into earlier.

“Dylan thinks he’s in love with you,” says Amy as she pulls her foot back to safety. 

“Who is Dylan?” asks Lauren.

“The guy I work with,” says Amy, “with the earrings.”

Lauren gives a hum of recognition but doesn’t take her eyes from the screen. “Tell him thanks but no thanks. I am so not into dating anyone right now.”

Amy shrugs, “It doesn’t really matter. Dylan is gay.”

“Is anyone straight in that place?” Lauren asks in a tone that is both snarky and genuine. Amy lets the snark roll off her.

“Plenty of the customers are. And Tyler.”

Lauren’s face scrunches up with the effort of remembering, “Is that the Asian guy that actually knows how to dress?”

“Yeah.” Amy affirms.

Lauren nods approvingly, “At least you work with someone normal.”

Amy bites her tongue. She’s not sure of the rules about outing Tyler. In the time that Amy has known him Tyler has never tried to hide his history or be anything other than a proud member of the LGBT community at the Twain. Still, it doesn’t really feel like her place to share something about him that personal. Amy decides not to say anything. Besides, it’s not like he’s not normal.

 

Since her shift started Amy has dropped two mugs, burned her hand on the milk steamer, and broken the espresso machine. She is tired and miserable with another hour and a half of work left to go. If she were Lauren she would be longingly eye stalking mocha whips by now. Instead she takes her fifteen and hides in the break room until Tyler gently pushes her back out onto the floor. While none of it is an excuse, it is at least an explanation for why - when she finds Dylan and Lauren, heads bowed together, gossiping about her history with Karma by the cash register - she loses her shit.

They are so absorbed in their conversation that neither one notices Amy come back from her break. 

“And the girl didn’t know she was gay?” Dylan says, in what Amy uncharitably thinks of as his bitchiest voice, “Is she blind? No straight girl owns that many pairs of doc martins.” 

Lauren smirks, “What can I say?” she says slyly, “Amy must find stupidity attractive.”

Amy sees red.

She barrels up to the register hip checking Dylan who jumps away guiltily. Lauren doesn’t jump but her nostrils flare and her eyes widen in evident surprise. Dylan’s mouth drops open like he’s going to say something but Amy beats him to the punch.

“Fuck you both.” Amy says in a furious whisper, “Dylan, if you want to know about my life I thought you would at least have the decency to ask ME.” Dylan shuts his mouth with an audible click. His cheeks flame with embarrassment. 

“And you,” Amy rounds on Lauren. Behind her she can hear Dylan eagerly scurrying away, “You think what happened with Karma was funny? You know what I think is funny? That you have to come and sit here twice a week because you have literally no one else willing to spend time with you. Not Bruce, not your ‘friends’ if you can even call them that because they are NEVER around, not your boyfriend... I actually used to think stupid was YOUR type, but it turned out Tommy had brains after all. He was at least smart enough to get away from you.”

Amy is breathing heavily by the time she spits out the final words. More than a few of the customers near the register are openly staring at her. She flushes and braces for the retaliation she’s sure is coming from across the counter. It never comes. That’s when Amy realizes that although Lauren’s mouth is set in a thin angry line, the edges are wobbling. That her eyes aren’t shining with anger, but are glassy with unshed tears. Lauren doesn’t yell. She doesn’t say anything at all. She leaves. She walks straight out of the coffee shop without so much as stopping to collect her things. The battle is over and for the first time in the history of their relationship Amy has flat out won. She thought it would feel better. Instead she just feels empty. 

Max swoops in seconds later. She installs Tyler behind the counter and marches Amy back to the break room shutting the door behind them. She fixes Amy with a look that is equal parts compassion and disappointment, as if Amy is a toddler that injured itself throwing a tantrum.

“I don’t know what the hell that was, but if it ever happens again while you are on the clock I am going to have to let you go. Do you understand?”

Amy nods. She feels shame, like a living thing, creeping hotly up her neck. Her throat constricts painfully giving her the sensation of having swallowed glass. Max gives her a few minutes to pull herself together. When they’re up Amy returns to the floor, though not to the register. She spends the rest of the shift filling coffee orders and talking as little as possible. Lauren never comes back, but Amy is sure she’ll be waiting at the car at the end of shift with a few choice words prepared and ready to be fired.

Amy speeds through cleaning at the end of her shift. Dylan helps her gather Lauren’s books from where they were abandoned on the corner table. 

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he says, his head hanging apologetically, “I didn’t mean to upset you…”

Amy waves him off, “No, It’s my bad. I overreacted. For some reason Lauren and I bring out the worst in each other.”

“Yeah man, that was scary!” Dylan exclaims, returning to his regular unbridled enthusiasm, “I’m totally adding teenaged girls to my list of worst fears along with, like, being attacked by a thousand hornets. But you’re friends right? You’ll work it out.”

Amy blinks at him. Friends? Karma was her friend. Shane is her friend. Lauren is more like her evil roommate. Her evil roommate she has to drive around and watch crappy TV with. Her evil roommate she’s pretty sure she made cry. 

“I wouldn’t call us friends exactly…” Amy hedges.

Dylan actually seems surprised, “Oh sorry, that’s just what Lauren said.”

“What?” Amy asks, confused.

Dylan shrugs, “I asked how you knew each other. She said you were friends.” 

It’s not like Amy’s world tilts on its axis because Lauren might think they are friends. That would be ridiculous. Amy’s world tilts because the more she thinks about it the more she realizes Lauren may actually be right. She and Lauren have been forced to spend time together ever since their parents started dating, but recently they’ve been hanging out by choice. All of the study sessions, car rides, and random TV marathons... from the outside that looks a hell of a lot like friendship. It’s not like they started being nice to each other, although in the aftermath of her breakup with Karma Lauren was the one that kept the story out of the school blog… and Amy did invited her out dancing that time… Did they start being nice to each other? Amy shakes her head. There was no massive turnaround that stopped them from being mean, the meanness had simply lost its bite. Insults were no longer insulting and had become the means by which they communicated. 

Amy says a distracted goodbye to Dylan, swinging Lauren’s bag over her shoulder. Was she really too dense to recognize that she and Lauren were becoming friends? That they might actually like each other’s company? If she didn’t see this what else has she been missing?

 

Lauren isn’t at the car when she gets there. Amy looks around anxiously before pulling out her phone and trying Lauren’s cell. The phone rings softly against her ear, then starts to echo as the same tone rings out from the pocket of the bag she’s carrying. She fishes in the pocket and finds Lauren’s still ringing cell phone. She checks the time. They are both due home for dinner. Amy starts to panic. How is she going to explain coming home with a ringing bag and no stepsister?

Amy resolves to tell Bruce and Farrah everything. She’ll take the blame for starting the fight and losing track of Lauren. As she drives home Amy scans both sides of the road. If anyone tried to walk to the Raudenfeld house this would be the most direct route. She passes a few pedestrians but none that are tiny and blonde. Crazed thoughts start to chase each other through her brain. What if Lauren was kidnapped? Or hit by a car? What if she was in the hospital and a nurse was trying to give her the wrong medication and she was headed for a dangerous allergic reaction? By the time she pulls into the driveway Amy is so caught up in a cycle of worst-case scenarios she almost doesn’t notice that the light is on in Lauren’s room upstairs. 

It is only when she is racing up the stairs that Amy remembers just how thoroughly she fucked up. If she and Lauren were friends it was a tenuous friendship at best, and she managed to atom bomb it before she even realized what it was. Amy thinks back to what it was like just after Lauren and Bruce moved in with a shiver. A return to that level of hostility would make the upcoming summer months miserable. 

Lauren’s door is shut but that doesn’t stop the loud music blaring inside from flooding out into the hallway. Amy gives a brisk knock on the door.

“Lauren?” she calls cautiously. 

No response. The music obscures any sounds of movement from inside. Amy tries again, pounding the door with her fist.

“Lauren!” She shouts over the pounding, “Can you please come out here so that I can see you are okay? I’ve been freaking out.”

She is about to start pounding again when the door creaks open a few inches and Lauren’s pale face appears in the crack. 

“What do you want?” Lauren asks in a low tired voice. Her face is still perfectly made up, but Amy can see the rings of red at her eyes.

Unsure of how to begin Amy holds out Lauren’s bag, a peace offering, between them. Lauren takes it and begins closing her door.

“Wait!” Amy cries.

Lauren pauses. Amy scrambles for something to say that sounds better than, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t understand that we were friends and that I actually care about you. Please don’t be mad at me for yelling all of your insecurities in a public area.’ Lauren looks at her expectantly. She has to say something. 

“I want to apol-” Amy starts, but Lauren cuts her off.

“Don’t.” 

With that Lauren shuts Amy out.

 

The next few car rides are silent icy affairs that make Amy long for the days when Lauren would complain about how much of an idiot she was. Every time she tries to apologize Lauren shuts the conversation down with ruthless efficiency. At her wits end Amy resorts to bribery, sending Lauren complimentary mocha whips through Dylan and Tyler. On the third one Lauren finally caves, closing her eyes and taking an experimental sip. She finishes the drink pretending not to notice Amy’s side-eyed staring.

Buoyed by her success Amy jumps at every new chance to extend any good will with free sweets. In addition to the mochas Amy starts sending over small cookies and pastries. She’s debating whether she thinks Lauren might like a cake pop when the girl in question finally breaks her silence by placing an untouched mocha on the counter.

“Okay, you need to stop sending me these knockoff Frappuccinos. I feel like you are trying to fatten me up so you can put me in the oven.”

Amy grins, “I don’t know Gretel, if I stop does that mean you’ll start talking to me again?”

Lauren crosses her arms, the picture of stubbornness, “I didn’t say that.” 

“Well then, I guess I’ll just have to keep communicating through food.” says Amy, trying her best to seem more playful than desperate.

She gives the mocha a slight nudge in Lauren’s direction.

Something flickers in Lauren’s eyes, “So what does this Mocha say?”

Amy considers for a moment, “It’s saying ‘Sorry Amy is such a colossal dick.’” 

There it is. An opening. A crack in the armor. The barest hint of a smile hovers just out of reach around Lauren’s lips. “And the coffee cake?”

“Speaks for itself.”

An actual smile blooms over Lauren’s face. It’s as pure a victory as any Amy has ever won. The thaw between them is almost immediate. Amy has to stifle her sigh of relief.

“Sorry to interrupt!”

It takes every ounce of self-control Amy has not to throttle Tyler by his bowtie. His cheerful expression, blissfully ignorant of the three week long cold war she is trying to end, makes Amy want to punch him in the face. 

“I’m having a birthday party at my place after work next Saturday. Are you free?” Tyler asks. 

He hands Amy an embossed business card with the date and directions to the party because of course he does. Tyler with his beautiful vests and ties would never just throw up a Facebook invite or send out a tweet like the rest of humanity. The party will likely be as beautiful and anachronistic as the rest of him. Amy makes a show of examining the date and time as if she has a social life that might conflict.

“Yeah I should be available,” She allows, “Can I bring my friend?”

All three of them follow the line of her hand, which points across the counter to Lauren.

Tyler gives an easy nod, “Absolutely, that sounds perfect!”

He heads off with a spring in his step. Amy watches him go before turning back to Lauren hoping she didn’t just push her luck. Lauren raises her eyebrows.

Amy shrugs weakly, “You want to go to a party?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think it’s possible to love someone and also hate them a little?"

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Lauren mutters from behind Amy as she follows her up the stairs of Tyler’s downtown apartment building.

“It’ll be fun… probably,” says Amy, weakly attempting enthusiasm, “Just try to be nice.”

“I’m nice!” Lauren snaps unconvincingly.

They come to a stop outside of Tyler’s door. Amy can hear music and the rise and fall of conversations taking place on the other side. Lauren worries a small button on her sleeve, twisting it back and forth between her index finger and thumb. Amy half expects her to tear it right of her blouse. 

“What? Are you nervous?” Amy teases.

Lauren drops her hand from her sleeve like it’s been burned. She juts her chin out in a show of mulish opposition to the very notion of ‘nerves’.

Amy rolls her eyes. “Of course not. How silly of me.”

She presses the buzzer next to the door. Moments later it opens revealing a tipsy red cheeked Tyler wearing a crisp new bow tie decorated with tiny party hats.

“Happy Birthday!” Amy and Lauren chorus.

“You’re here!” Tyler gushes, wrapping first Amy and then Lauren in an unstable hug. Lauren has to take a few stuttering steps back in an effort to keep them both upright.

Amy has never seen Tyler this loose. He is clearly a couple of drinks in and his cheeks are flushed with a rosy glow. He releases Lauren, to her obvious relief, and waves them inside.

“Come in!”

As they follow him into the apartment it becomes immediately apparent that Tyler lives in the equivalent of a hipster photo essay. Clean white walls are offset by bursts of color from rescued well-loved furniture and strategically placed decorative pillows. One wall features a large collection of photographs, each in a different distinct frame, while another holds a miniature library suspended on a series of floating shelves in the shape of a maze. A small table covered with food is angled against a large wooden barrel, the top of which is stocked with a collection of bottles and glasses. Altogether the effect makes Amy want to roll her eyes in disgust and simultaneously take up residence and refuse to leave. Lauren takes in the room with approval, relaxing as she notes each careful detail.

Tyler excuses himself, lurching unsteadily down a short darkened hallway that presumably leads to a bedroom and bathroom, leaving them at the edge of the party. The other guests, about forty in total, chatter away in small groups in the main room occasionally passing in and out of what looks like the entrance to a tiny kitchen. A few loiter out on the balcony, cigarettes dangling from their lips. There are some familiar faces that Amy recognizes as regular customers from the Twain, but no one that she actually knows. She takes a few steps forward unsure of where to start. Something bumps against her shoulder. She turns to find Lauren hovering just behind her right elbow, her face fixed with that studied air of indifference she puts on while waiting for Amy at the Twain.

Amy tries to clamp down on the creeping frustration that expression always manages to evoke in her. If she were in a more thoughtful mood she might feel charitable towards what is clearly Lauren’s defense mechanism. Instead she lets herself move without thinking and literally knocks the aloofness off Lauren’s face with a forceful hip check. Unprepared for the impact, Lauren stumbles. Eyes wide with shock she gapes at Amy in silent outrage. Unbidden a giggle rumbles up Amy’s throat. Lauren swats at her ineffectually yelping, “Stop!” which just makes Amy giggle harder. Though she fights to keep her face in its usual menacing expression, Lauren can’t keep the corners of her mouth from lifting. 

“Lauren!” 

They both snap to attention as if caught doing something they shouldn’t. Dylan appears out of the crowd like a magician’s trick. He excitedly takes Lauren by the arm and whisks her away without so much as a nod to Amy.

“Nice to see you too Dyl!” Amy calls after him. But she can’t be mad because now Lauren is laughing as Dylan whispers in her ear, which means tonight might not be such a disaster after all.

Amy wanders along the edge of the crowd until she finds Max in the kitchen thoughtfully rearranging the magnets on Tyler’s refrigerator between swigs from a bottle of beer. She greets Amy with a nod then returns her attention to the fridge. Among the more typical ‘Texas Forever’ and ‘Keep Austin Weird’ magnets are small white rectangles printed with words - a magnetic poetry set – which upon closer examination appears to be completely in French. Max runs her finger over the words, stopping to push a few little magnetic pieces into a line forming the phrase ‘Prens-moi tu animal!’

“What does that mean?” Amy inquires.

Max shrugs. “Hopefully something dirty. Conjugating magnets is a bitch.”

Amy nods seriously. It seems like the thing to do. 

A party guest slides past them and opens the refrigerator, grabbing a beer. Amy and Max press themselves against the opposite counter to free up space. Amy thinks about going into the fridge for a beer of her own. If she were at a high school party someone would have shoved a solo cup in her hand by now expecting her to choke down whatever was inside. Here everyone drinks from bottles and glasses, sipping rather than chugging. It makes Amy long to be out of high school, out of college even. At the very least she’d like to be twenty-one because at this moment the idea of drinking with Max standing right next to her feels a lot like drinking in front of a teacher or Bruce. She takes in Max’s half shaved head and intricate tattoos. This is what authority figures look like now. 

After much deliberation she ends up bypassing the beer and grabbing a ginger ale off the bottom shelf instead, resolving to get something with a little more kick when she isn’t standing less than a foot from her boss.

Max, oblivious to Amy’s internal debate, looks over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “I see you made up with your girlfriend.”

For a single irrational moment Amy looks around the party for Karma before realizing that Max and Karma have never even met. Then her eyes land on Lauren talking animatedly with Dylan and a few other partygoers and she chokes on her ginger ale.

Amy lets out a strangled cough “Lauren?”

Max nods. 

“Lauren is NOT my girlfriend!” the words run together as Amy rushes to protest, “That would be… I mean she’s straight and my... that’s just weird and gross and… and weird. I might throw up in my mouth a little.”

Max ignores Amy’s dramatics taking a slow sip of her beer, emptying it. She looks down at the bottle critically, “Too bad. She’s a cool girl.”

“Lauren?” Amy says again, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.

Max regards Amy with amusement. “Dude I see a hundred dumb high school kids that don’t know their head from their ass come through the Twain every day. That girl is different. She’s driven. Like, you know she’s going places,” Max shrugs, “It’s cool.”

A couple of months ago Amy would have responded with something like, ‘Going straight to hell maybe,’ but now she just takes a gulp of her ginger ale, wincing as the bubbles burn her sinuses. She is definitely going to need that drink.

From her position across the room Lauren catches Amy staring and gives her a quizzical look. Amy flushes. She can hear the pump of blood echoing in her ears. It’s not until she realizes that no one will find Max’s assumption more laughable than Lauren that she relaxes. 

Max has returned her focus to the French magnets and barely notices as Amy slips past her, forging her way across the room. She slides in next to Lauren muttering, “I have something ridiculous to tell you.” 

Lauren cocks an eyebrow. 

“Amy!” Dylan interrupts, “Have you met Margret? She’s Tyler’s girlfriend.”

Amy mouths ‘Later’ to Lauren before shaking hands with Margret, a pretty Chinese girl wearing an impeccable blue lace dress, “Nice to meet you.”

“Amy is our newest worker bee at the Twain,” Dylan explains, “She’s like the dykey baby sister I never wanted.”

Amy gives him a sickly sweet smile, “And Dylan is the asshole older brother I’m glad I never had.”

Dylan grabs Amy in a one armed headlock, ruffling her hair with his free hand. She twists, elbowing him in the solar plexus, and he lets her go.

“Awww, you guys are so sweet. It’s like looking at a Rockwell painting.” Lauren coos.

Margret and the other people in their small group laugh. Amy does her best to smooth her hair back into place. After a moment she gives up and turns back to Margret.

“This apartment is amazing.”

Margret beams proudly, “Thank you! We like it.”

“Did you do all of this yourself?” Amy asks.

Margret pulls a face, “God no. This is all Tyler. He practically lives on pintrest. It’s actually a problem. I’ll come home and find him trying to resurface a table with bottle caps or turning a coat rack and some mason jars into a candleholder. It’s like if he doesn’t have a project to work on he starts to go crazy.”

“You’re right that sounds terrible.” Lauren drawls.

Margret rolls her eyes, “You don’t have to clean up after him.”

Tyler picks that moment to join them, slinging a heavy arm over Margret’s shoulder. She automatically wraps an arm around his waist steadying him. He leans his head against hers, planting a kiss just behind her ear. Margret smiles with the kind of exasperated affection that marks a long-term kind of love. Wrapped around each other, Amy notices they are exactly the same height.

“Clean up after who?” he queries, a slight slur to his words.

“And where have you been?” Margret asks, the very picture of unimpressed.

“Over… ” he gestures vaguely behind him, “Marco had tequila shots.”

Margret shoots a glare across the room at a tall Italian guy with an earring. He shrugs helplessly.

“I think it’s time to get you some water,” she says navigating Tyler back towards the bedroom.

“I want another beer,” he complains dragging his feet.

“If you can walk to the beer you can have one,” says Margret releasing her hold on his waist and ducking out from under his arm.

Tyler sways on his feet. He looks towards the kitchen longingly but makes no move to walk. Margret steps back in, returning her arm to his waist.

“Water it is.”

“Water,” Tyler concedes.

Dylan raises his glass in a salute as they shuffle away. “He’s a little man, but his thirst is big. I’m surprised he lasted this long.”

Amy hums in agreement.

“They’re cute.” Lauren says wistfully.

Amy wonders whether Lauren ever been in love. Its never occurred to her to ask. When Lauren had started dating Tommy so soon after she got to town Amy had been sure she was the kind of girl that jumped from boyfriend to boyfriend without much of an emotional attachment. There has been no evidence to bear out that assumption though. Lauren hasn’t been on a date in months. Maybe Amy had been too caught up in her own heartbreak to see that Lauren was broken as well.

“Do you miss Tommy?” she asks.

Lauren looks at Amy in surprise, “Tommy was a jackass.” She pauses for a moment and her eyes get a faraway look, “It’s more like… I miss the person that’s coming. The one that’s not here yet.” She gives her body a brisk shake as if physically riding herself of the idea, “That sounds so stupid.” 

Now it’s Amy who’s wistful, “It really doesn’t.” 

Lauren heads off to the bathroom and Dylan is immersed in a conversation about weights and reps with a guy he knows from the gym so Amy listens to her now rumbling stomach and decides to find food. The little snack table is packed tight. A good portion of it is taken up with a half eaten sheet cake that proclaims, ‘Hap Birt Tyl’ in cursive icing. Other small bowls and plates crowd the other half. Among the standard chips and dip are tiny finger sandwiches, squares of flatbread pizza, and- ” 

“Coconut shrimp!” Amy cheers under her breath.

She happily shoves one in her mouth and piles three more onto a napkin. She’s hardly swallowed the first one and is starting on the second when a voice cuts into her crustacean reverie.

“Whoa there Shrimp Girl! Eat that fast and you’re going to choke.”

Amy immediately does just that, coughing with surprise at the intrusion. She doubles over, hacking as she struggles to spit the offending bits of shrimp into her napkin. When she finally does and straightens back up she finds herself looking into the concerned eyes of a stupidly pretty girl with long black hair and dark red lips.

“Breathe okay? Just breathe,” the girl says patting her on the shoulder. Amy feels herself blushing a bright fluorescent red. She screws her eyes shut and concentrates on her breath – in and out. 

“Better?” asks the girl.

Better would be if Amy wasn’t standing speechless in front of someone this beautiful with a hand full of masticated seafood. 

She clenches her fist around the napkin, managing to grind out, “Yeah I’m just gonna…” and looks for a trashcan. Amy almost groans when she finds it, directly behind the girl. They do an awkward shuffle as Amy tries to shift past the girl and she does her best to get out of the way. Places swapped, Amy tosses the napkin and desperately tries to get a hold of herself. There is no reason to be flustered. She doesn’t know anything about this girl, except that she is obviously a genius with charcoal eyeliner.

Amy takes a deep breath. “Sorry about tha-“ she turns back around only to find herself on a collision course once again. The girl in question, having just poured herself a drink, pivots outwards glass in hand. The suddenness of Amy’s turn when paired with the angle of the glass results in the contents of said glass splashing all over Amy’s top. Horrified the girl snatches the glass away, but the damage is done.

Amy hurries down the hallway looking for the bathroom. There are three identical closed doors. She takes a chance on the second, twisting the knob and thrusting it open. She’s chosen correctly, the room contains all of the expected features of a bathroom as well as one unexpected one. The door swings open to reveal Lauren, crouched on the ground, frantically picking up what looks like dozens of small white pieces of paper strewn across the floor.

Amy gasps. “Lauren! What the hell?”

Lauren continues as if Amy isn’t there, rapidly picking each hard to distinguish square paper off the white floor and depositing them into her cupped palm. She moves erratically and a few of the gathered papers spill over the edge of her hand back to the floor. Instinctively Amy drops to her knees and picks them back up. From this angle she can see the frantic crazed look in Lauren’s eyes. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, alarmed.

Lauren keeps her eyes trained on the floor, her hands shake as she goes. “I’m fine. I’ve got it.” Her voice is hard and brittle.

Under the sink Amy finds a cardboard box, the likely source of the spill. Glancing over the packaging she finds a label from the local drug store. The name ‘TYLER OH’ is writ large in bold typeface, underneath in smaller letters reads ‘Transdermal Testosterone System.’

Lauren plucks the box from Amy’s hands. “I wasn’t doing anything… it was on the counter and just - ” She rambles, funneling the contents of her hands back into the container.

She continues on her obsessive hunt, feeling along the baseboards in the hard to see area under the claw foot tub. 

“Dude, it’s fine.” Amy says, projecting her most calming voice, “It’s okay if you miss one or two.”

Lauren emerges from under the tub wildly, “You don’t understand T’s half-life is only like seventy hours. The transdermal deposits will completely deplete if he runs out before he can get another pack.”

Her words come out in a strangled mess. Amy gets about half of it, but hearing Lauren babbling about chemical half-life on a bathroom floor strains credulity and makes her doubt the rest. 

Lauren turns over the box in her hands, “Tyler he’s…?”

“Yeah he’s trans.” Amy confirms, “Totally a guy, just born in a girl’s body.” 

Lauren doesn’t respond. Amy is overtaken by a sick notion. Despite their recent progress Amy had born the brunt of Lauren’s puritanical Christian values on more than one occasion. Tyler, a trans man with a girlfriend, probably bumps up against every one of them.

“Is that a problem?” Amy asks, testily.

Lauren looks bewildered by the question, which doesn’t relieve Amy’s fear. Abruptly Lauren stands abandoning the box on the floor.

“I… I don’t…” she trails off, brushing past Amy out of the bathroom. 

Amy clumsily launches herself up to give chase, but by the time she gets out the door Lauren is nowhere to be seen. She returns to the main room, scanning the crowd for the top of the tiny blonde’s head. Nothing.

As a last resort she pulls out her phone and dials Lauren’s number. The party is loud enough that she can barely hear it ring. Amy slides open the glass door to the balcony, closing it behind her. The tinny ring of the phone now sounds loudly in her ears. Lauren doesn’t pick up. Amy opens her text messages and taps out a quick ‘Where ARE you?’ too absorbed in the screen to notice the door sliding open and closed behind her.

“Shrimp Girl we meet again.”

Amy nearly drops her phone off the balcony. 

She turns and sees the girl whose drink she is still wearing across her top lean up against the railing. “Uh hey?”

“Reagan,” the girl supplies with a smile.

Amy’s phone buzzes with Lauren’s response. Amy tears her eyes away from the girl, Reagan, and opens the message. It doesn’t say much beyond urging Amy to ‘calm her shit’ and explaining that Lauren will find her in an unspecified amount of time. It’s probably the least informative text message Amy’s ever received.

“Everything cool?” Reagan asks, clearly noting Amy’s distress.

Amy does her best to shrug it off, “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“So...” she draws out playfully, “Do you have a name? Or should I keep using Shrimp Girl?”

“Actually Shrimp Girl is the name on my birth certificate. My parents were die hard decapod enthusiasts.” Amy quips without thinking.

Reagan looks at her like she’d grown a second head and that head began speaking in tongues. Amy wonders why she has to talk. Like ever. But then Reagan starts to laugh.

Tyler, newly raised from his bed but still a fairly drunk, finds them there twenty minutes later. In those twenty minutes Amy has only wanted to throw herself off the balcony eleven times. In return she has learned some valuable information, like that Reagan is a DJ and was likely working at the club she went to with Lauren and Shane and that Reagan was in a significant relationship with a girl but she is now single. 

Reagan catches sight of him first and greets him with a knowing, “Hey Ty! How ya feelin’?”

Tyler grumbles a response that neither of them quite catches.

“What was that?” Amy teases.

“I found your friend.” He enunciates and points thought the glass at Lauren, standing next to the couch examining the photos on the wall.

“Oh my god. Is she okay?” Amy asks, worried.

“S’fine,” Tyler slurs, “just don’t press her or whatever. She’s got a lot,” he throws his arms wide for effect, “going on.”

“I’m sorry,” Amy apologizes to Reagan, “I think I have to go deal with this.”

“No problem,” she says noncommittally, “If you’ve got to go you’ve got to go.”

Amy pauses at the door, “Can I clarify? I don’t actually want to go.”

Reagan blushes, ducking her head with a smile. Amy rides the high of that straight into the living room and up to Lauren, who is studying a picture of two proud parents holding a tiny infant baby. 

Remembering Tyler’s (drunken) advice Amy doesn’t even try to ask about what happened in the bathroom or if Lauren took any psychotropic drugs. Instead she examines the picture. 

“I wonder if that’s Tyler or Margret?”

“It’s Tyler.” Lauren replies, “All the ones on this side are Tyler.” 

Amy doesn’t ask how she knows. Though she would like to turn Lauren upside down and shake the secrets out of her Amy lets her eyes travel along family photos that show young Tyler in a dress with barrettes and braided hair. Tyler at ten, sporting an androgynous bowl cut, playing the trumpet. A cap and gown at high school graduation. Newer photos of Tyler in his signature bow tie, Tyler with his girlfriend, Tyler, his arms wrapped around his mom and dad. She hadn’t noticed before, but scattered among the pictures are small framed mirrors. As her eyes drift from one picture to another she catches glimpses of the room behind them, her own curious eyes, and Lauren.

“I think that was enough excitement for one night.” Amy remarks cautiously, like Lauren’s an animal that will spook, “You want to get out of here?”

Lauren lets out a tired sigh, “I don’t want you to have to leave.”

Amy shrugs, “It’s cool, I’m mostly just embarrassing myself anyway.”

Amy catches gratitude flash across Lauren’s face in one of the mirrors. They wave goodbye to Dylan, still holding court in the living room, and Tyler on the balcony. Outside the air is brisk. Somehow Amy hadn’t noticed while she was talking with Reagan.

“Earlier, you said you wanted to tell me something?” Lauren asks as they make their way to the car.

Amy thinks of Max and her knowing smile, “It wasn’t important.

An hour later they are home and Amy is getting ready to go to sleep when her phone buzzes. She unlocks it and a text pops up from an unknown number. It’s only four words, ‘sleep tight shrimp girl,’ but those four words keep her awake for hours.

 

“Earth to Amy!”

Shane waves his hand in Amy’s face. She jolts. “What?”

“I need you with me on this!”

He resumes pitching a complicated plan that ends in a school wide ban on eighties style hot pants. Amy returns her attention to her phone, where Reagan has just sent her a picture of a woman dressed head to toe in hot pink from an event she’s catering.

“Ew! What’s that about?” says Shane interrupting himself.

Amy gives a halfhearted “Hmmm?” without looking up from her screen.

Shane palms the top of Amy’s head and physically turns it so that she is looking across the cafeteria.

“That!” he exclaims agitatedly.

There is only one ‘that’ he could possibly mean. Amy line of sight is now pointed directly at Liam Booker, bent almost in half, talking intimately in the ear of Lauren Cooper. 

Amy watches as Lauren listens intently. She nods at something Liam says, and then pulls out her phone. Liam takes it and types something in. He hands it back to her and departs on his usual route to the art room. Lauren drops the phone back in her purse and returns to her seat as if nothing has happened.

“That,” Shane says with vitriol, “was disgusting.”

 

Amy is lying on the floor of Lauren’s room, her face completely covered by an open history book. Lauren sits on the bed, back propped up with approximately a zillion throw pillows. She flips through a list of potential test questions the class was advised to take home for practice.

“What was the significance of Fort Sumner in the Civil War?” Lauren reads aloud.

“Are you dating Liam Booker?” Amy questions, tipping the book off her face.

“Liam Booker?” Lauren gags, “That’s disgusting.”

Amy can’t help but delight in the venom in Lauren’s voice. She may tolerate Liam’s presence at lunch, but she hasn’t forgotten the months he pursued Karma even though she was supposed to be taken. She’s still curious though. What could Liam possibly have to say to Lauren?

“None of your business,” replies Lauren, ending the matter.

Amy returns to her history book, holding it aloft and squinting at the small text. Just looking at it makes her want to take a nap. This, Amy thinks, is probably why she is doomed to keep repeating the same mistakes.

“I need you to drive me somewhere.” Lauren says, so softly that Amy barely hears her.

Amy mentally runs through the week, “You don’t have dance class today.”

Lauren shakes her head, “It’s not for class.”

Not one to let such a perfect piece of leverage go to waste, Amy challenges, “Why would I do that when you won’t tell me about Liam Booker?”

Lauren doesn’t take the bait. She fixes Amy with a look of pure open need. “Amy, please.”

 

Lauren gives directions as they drive, but after a while Amy knows where they are going. About forty minutes away, a little too far to be close, is the suburb where Lauren grew up. Ranch and split level houses wiz past as Lauren guides them further and further in. She points at one as it passes by. “That was my house.” Amy asks if she wants to stop. She shakes her head. A new family lives there now. She doesn’t want to disturb them. 

Less than five minutes later Lauren has her make a right turn, and then another. The car pulls into the short driveway of a medium sized cemetery. They park in the deserted funeral lot. Lauren opens her door, but Amy isn’t sure if she’s supposed to come or stay in the car. Lauren hops out and hovers until Amy follows suit. They find the grave easily. Lauren knows exactly where she’s going. Amy hangs back at a respectful distance and this time Lauren leaves her behind.

Amy is struck by the strangeness of the cemetery. The large open tract of land makes private grief easy to spot from a distance. There is no cover, nowhere to hide. Lauren kneels beside the grave. Although Amy can’t hear what she’s saying, she can see her lips move. 

Amy leans against the tombstone of a man named ‘Zachery Middleton.’ She doesn’t think he’ll mind. It feels disrespectful to pull out her phone so she watches the birds as they fly overhead, keeping a loose count of how many of each type she sees. At sparrow number eighteen Lauren stands up. Amy gives up her count and joins her at the grave of Evelyn Cooper. They stand shoulder to shoulder in front of her slab of granite.

“Today is the day she was diagnosed. We knew she was dying for almost a year.” Lauren tells her in the manner of a confession, “It was right after I turned twelve. She was so far gone that there wasn’t much that could be done. She was the most important person in my life. I loved her so much. And I know that she loved me.” Lauren nods as if agreeing with herself, “I know that.” 

She takes a hard swallow before continuing, “She also had really high expectations. She wanted me to act a certain way. Dress a certain way. It was difficult…” Lauren pauses for a moment, “It was difficult to be the person she wanted me to be. That last year I killed myself to be the perfect daughter. And I think I’ve been killing myself ever since because those expectations are all I have left of her. Besides the pictures.”

Lauren turns to Amy, her shell cracked wide, more vulnerable than Amy has ever seen her. “Do you think it’s possible to love someone and also hate them a little?” she asks.

Amy considers the question. She has a feeling it is the most important one she has ever been asked. She thinks about her mom, about Karma – the pain she’s felt through those relationships – but when she opens her mouth she doesn’t mention them at all.

“My dad was an alcoholic asshole that hasn’t tried to see me since my mom kicked him out when I was ten. I still love him.” Amy stops, surprised at her own words, “He didn’t expect anything from me. I mean he didn’t expect anything from himself either. Your mom cared. It wasn’t perfect, but you never have to doubt that.” 

Amy tries to imagine Evelyn Cooper, but she never knew the woman. Instead she pictures Farrah and all of the little disappointments and forgiveness’s that bind them together. “I think expectation can be a way showing love.”

Lauren nods. Tears chase each other down her cheeks. Amy gently slips an arm across her back and draws her in, hugging her against her body. Lauren clings to her, like Amy’s an anchor keeping her from drifting out to sea. Her face buried in Amy’s shoulder, she lets go of what ever secrets she’s been holding onto, if only for a moment.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So how do you get out of a catch 22?”
> 
> “According to Heller it involves a lot of crash landing planes in the ocean.”

Bzzzzzttt

Amy’s phone lights up, moving slightly across the bed as it vibrates. She flips it over.

Reagan: Desert Island. You can only bring one movie. What do you bring?

Amy bites her lip. 

Amy: My desert island has a TV?

The response is quick. Her phone buzzing only seconds after Amy’s message was sent.

Reagan: Don’t question the logic of the desert island.

Amy grins.

“Oh my god will you stop texting for like a five seconds?” Lauren reaches across the bed from where she is lying on her stomach surrounded by her English notes and snatches the phone out of Amy’s hands. 

“Hey!” Amy protests scrambling to her knees, knocking her textbook off the bed in the process.

Lauren switches the phone to her far hand and holds it out over the side of the bed. “Your awkward courtship rituals can wait until after we go over The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”

The phone lights up in Lauren’s hand with another message. They both look at it. “Amy…” Lauren says warningly.

Bzzzzttttt

The phone lights up again and Amy leaps into action. She throws herself over Lauren, pinning her down as she grabs for the device. 

“Get off me you cow!” Lauren yells, struggling under Amy’s weight unable to move her. Amy fights for control of Lauren’s arm. Lauren retaliates landing a sharp elbow in Amy’s stomach. Amy wheezes in pain but does not budge. With Lauren now trying to cow kick her Amy extends her body as far as it will go and plucks the phone from Lauren’s hand. Victorious, Amy keeps Lauren pinned underneath her as she reads through texts from Reagan wondering where she went.

Lauren tries to throw another elbow, but this one glances harmlessly off of Amy’s side, “If you don’t move your fucking ass I am going to put every one of your stupid t-shirts through the shredder.”

“Try it tiny.” Amy replies distractedly as she taps out a response to Reagan.

Lauren lets out a huff of exasperation, “If you are this into this girl why don’t you just go out on a date instead of incessantly texting from my bed?”

“Finals are coming up. I need to study.” 

“Which would be a valid argument if you where actually studying.” Lauren points out acerbically. 

Amy deflates a little. Lauren is is right. Although schoolwork has picked up in preparation for the end of the year it’s not as though Amy’s been without free time. In fact since Reagan first texted her a month ago she’s had at least ten viable date nights available. And yet every time Reagan has brought up meeting in person Amy freezes, dashing off some excuse about school before retreating to her bed and Netflix account. 

Feeling defeated Amy shuts off her phone and rolls off of Lauren onto her back with a sigh, “I just… I’m not ready.”

“Please tell me you’re not still into Karma,” Lauren groans sitting up and cracking her back.

Amy shakes her head, “Definitely not. It’s…” she feels her face flushing, “…ugh this is so embarrassing.” 

Lauren rolls her eyes, “Stop being dramatic.”

Amy covers her face in her hands, “You’re going to make fun of me.”

“Probably,” Lauren agrees. 

“Lauren!”

“Fine.” Lauren huffs, “I won’t.” Amy shoots her a look. Lauren raises her hand as if swearing in court, “I promise.” 

Amy fixes Lauren with eyes narrowed in suspicion. Lauren twitches under the scrutiny. “What?” she snaps.

“I’m deciding if I can trust you.” Amy replies.

Lauren’s face takes on its characteristic expression of mulish indifference. The same expression Amy has come to recognize as a sign that she is anything but. Amy watches as she busies her hands reorganizing the notes that got crushed in their skirmish.

“The truth is I’m scared.” Amy admits. Lauren’s hands still. “Reagan is way more experienced than me. When it comes to dating… and other things… I have no idea what I’m doing. And I don’t know how I’m supposed figure any of it out without, you know, actually going out on a date.”

Lauren nods, “It’s a catch-22.”

Amy is confused, “What’s a catch-22?”

“Catch-22?” Lauren says waiting for a spark of recognition,” By Joseph Heller?” Amy gives her a blank stare. “It’s an American classic!” Amy shrugs. Lauren sighs, “Now I understand why you are doing so poorly in English Lit.”

“Hey!” Amy protests, “You promised you wouldn’t make fun of me.”

“I promised I wouldn’t make fun of the tragedy that is your love life, not your cultural ignorance.” Lauren quips condescendingly, “Catch-22 is a famous piece of literature that will most certainly be on the summer reading list this year. A catch-22 is when you are trapped in a cycle that is, by design, impossible to break out of. For instance, we can’t finish the school year until we take all our finals. If they kept adding tests so that every time we finished a final there would be another one to take that would be a catch 22. We’d never finish the school year because it’s impossible to finish all of the tests.”

Amy sluggishly follows her train of thought, “What does this have to do with dating?”

“You feel like you’re too inexperienced date. The catch is you can only get experience by dating. That’s your catch 22,” explains Lauren.

“Okay,” Amy draws out the word, “So how do you get out of a catch 22?”

Lauren shrugs, “According to Heller it involves a lot of crash landing planes in the ocean.” 

Amy’s feels her face acting out all three letters of wtf. Lauren crosses her arms defensively, “The book is about pilots during world war two!”

Amy snorts, “Yeah that sounds super relevant.” She picks her textbook off the ground and flips through its pages. “See, this is why I hate English. We’re supposed to pretend all of these made up stories are so meaningful and important when really they don’t have anything to do with anything. If we used that time to study real issues like global warming or the declining bee populations we might actually have a chance to fix things before we make the planet unlivable.”

Lauren isn’t impressed. “How is it that every conversation with you turns to the end of the world?” 

“Natural talent?” Amy quips.

Lauren finishes sorting her notes into a chronological stack and threads them back into her binder.

“You know what your problem is?” she asks.

“Is it that I voluntarily spend my free time getting verbally abused by you?”

Lauren ignores her, “Your problem is that you forget how the world works. The world doesn’t run on reality. Scientists can tell us that we are overheating the earth and destroying our environment. Fine. But people don’t understand what that means. So scientists show a picture and tell a story about poor sad polar bears to get people to care enough to change. Which might work if other people weren’t telling a different story about how everything is going to be fine and we don’t have to change at all. In the end it doesn’t matter that the other people aren’t scientists or that they have no facts to back up what they’re saying. It matters who is the better storyteller and which story people like better. And I’ll give you a hint, people don’t like stories where they are the reason the cute bear dies.”

Lauren closes out her rant by shutting her binder with a snap. Amy gapes at her, “That is literally the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Lauren shakes her head, “You’re missing the point.” 

“That we’re all doomed?”

“That you can do it too. Like with Reagan. The reality is that you’re scared because she’s much cooler than you and your last girlfriend dropkicked your heart in the ass.”

Amy gives her a dirty look, “Fuck you.”

Lauren waves a dismissive hand, “So change the story. Tell yourself you were playing it cool because you wanted someone to chase you for a change. Say it enough that you believe it. It’ll be good practice for when you are trying to convince people to help you save the world or whatever.”

“You terrify me.” Amy deadpans.

“Good,” responds Lauren, “Now can we get back to studying? My studio decided to schedule our recital for right in the middle of finals so I’m on a tight schedule.”

Despite her imperfect attendance record Amy is relatively sure Mrs. Feldman didn’t include a unit on social and political manipulation in between Shakespeare and romantic poetry, but that doesn’t stop her from double checking her syllabus when she returns to her own room. Not for the first time she wonders where on earth Lauren came from. Because knowing Bruce is not enough of an explanation. She turns her phone back on and opens up the text chain with Reagan. Scrolling up she reads through her old excuses, each more feeble than the last. Fuck it. Amy types in a new message and hits send. A little bubble pops up asking Reagan if she’s free for dinner this week. Almost immediately a second bubble pops up around an enthusiastic ‘Yeah! Totally!’

They hammer our the details and by the time Amy puts the phone back down she feels better than she has in weeks. Maybe taking control of her story was exactly what she needed. Not that she’ll tell Lauren that.

 

Amy gets off early on Friday so they decide Reagan will meet her at the Twain and they will go from there. She does her best to keep from checking the clock every couple of minutes. When she does look she could swear that time is moving faster than usual. The minutes disappear in chunks bringing her closer and closer to the end of her shift. Her nerves make her absent-minded. More than once Max has to bring her attention back to a cup about to overfill or a mistake she’s made in an order.

Two minutes before her shift ends the door opens. Amy’s head snaps up so fast her neck twinges. It’s not Reagan. Instead a familiar blonde head picks it’s way over to the counter. Amy fills with dread. Apparently even a reformed Lauren can’t resist showing up to pass judgment on Amy’s first real date.

“What are you doing here?” Amy hisses when Lauren reaches the counter. “How did you even know?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Lauren asks bewildered.

“You’re not here to spy on me?”

Lauren blinks at Amy like she’s lost her mind. “Freak, I didn’t even know you were working today. I’m here to see Tyler.”

Amy understands the words but can’t quite comprehend the meaning. 

“Why?” she asks blankly.

“None of your business,” sniffs Lauren.

“He’s my friend so it’s my business,” Amy insists stubbornly.

Lauren cocks an eyebrow, “What I’m not allowed to be friends with your friends?”

“Yes!” exclaims Amy in a burst of frustration.

Just then Dylan swoops by greeting Lauren with a squeal and a kiss on the cheek on his way back from cleaning off tables. Lauren crosses her arms smugly. 

The chime of the door opening once again cuts off any chance for Amy to respond. Her mouth goes dry as Reagan, all dark hair and dark eyes in a low cut tank top, scans the room. She finds Amy behind the counter and her lips twitch into a grin. Amy freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Her nerves come roaring to the forefront, her muscles to seize. 

Lauren flicks her wrist, “Do something.”

Amy snaps out of it. She forces a smile onto her face.

“Uh hey Max, I’m off,” she calls over her shoulder Max gives her a wave from where she’s reloading the espresso machine. Amy ducks under the counter, bumping her head as she goes. Lauren pinches the bridge of her nose as if she’s the one in pain. 

She holds out her hand. “Apron.” 

Amy clumsily unties her apron and tosses it at her without looking. She meets Reagan at the door.

“Hey.”

Reagan takes her by surprise, opening her arms and catching Amy in a brief hug. She giggles at Amy’s stiffness. 

“Come on,” she takes Amy’s hand, “Let’s get out of here.”

 

Farrah dishes out a watermelon salad she got out of an issue of Cosmo. Bruce regards it warily. Lauren is already halfway though her portion, eating at a pace most often seen when observing wild dogs.

“Honey, slow down.” Bruce warns.

“Can’t” says Lauren between mouthfuls, “I only have fifteen minutes before I have to get back to my history assignment. And I still need to finish noting the choreography I recorded yesterday for the recital.”

Farrah spoons some salad onto Amy’s plate. Amy takes a bite. “What day is that again? I need to see if I can get off work.”

The table turns to her in surprise, Lauren’s fork hovering inches from her mouth.

Farrah clears her throat, “Amy, I didn’t think you were going.”

Amy squares her shoulders defensively, “I’m the one driving to all of these classes. What can I say? I’m invested.”

“Okay then.” Farrah nods briskly, taking her seat at the table.

Amy glances at Lauren, noting the pleased flush warming her cheeks. She resumes eating at a slightly less frantic pace. Amy takes another bite of salad enjoying they way the savory mint cuts through the sweetness of the watermelon.

 

Later, Amy shuffles into their shared the bathroom to find Lauren leaning over the sink brushing her teeth. Amy reaches for her own toothbrush and squeezes some paste onto the bristles. Lauren spits.

“Am I supposed to ask you about your date?” Lauren asks wiping her mouth, “That’s a friend thing. Karma would have asked.”

Amy pauses in her brushing.

“You are not Karma,” she says through a mouthful of toothpaste.

A flash of something passes over Lauren’s face. She rinses her brush and reaches for the door. 

“It was nice.” Amy allows, stopping her. 

Lauren waits, hand on the doorknob. Amy spits and rinses her mouth.

“We’re going out again next week.”

Lauren gives a curt nod, “Good.” 

She pushes the door open and leaves. 

 

“I am going to murder him and then I’m going to murder him again just to be completely certain he can never pas de deux again.”

Lauren paces tight circles with her phone clenched tightly to her ear. It’s making Amy feel dizzy just watching her.

“No Lolo I am not overreacting. You’ve seen the footage! He’s a disaster!” she barks, her voice rising in pitch.

Over the last few days Lauren’s baseline crazy has been slowly escalating into the current fit unfolding in the kitchen. Worse it seems to be following Amy around the house. When Lauren started blasting the same piece of music on repeat loud enough to vibrate her walls Amy packed up her pre-calculus notes and moved to the kitchen counter. Her relocation lasted less than an hour before Lauren decided to hold her end of a hundred and ten decibel conversation just feet from where Amy was trying to study.

“Explain to me again why you couldn’t do it?”

Lauren’s lets her head fall back as she looks to the ceiling in exasperation. 

“I know volunteering is important…”

She snaps back to attention.

“Well I’m needy too!”

“Don’t I know it.” Amy chimes in.

That gets Amy a glare. Lauren heads out of the room almost colliding with Bruce on her way out.

“Whoo!” he exclaims after she’s forced her way past him, “Only one more day to go,” he takes the seat next to Amy, “She always gets like this before a big recital. Keeps us all on our toes.”

“So you’re telling me we have to deal with a whole other day of this?” Amy complains slumping over her notes.

Bruce sighs, “I’m afraid so. She’ll most likely hit critical mass about an hour before she goes onstage. It’s not pretty.” He brightens suddenly and gives Amy a nudge with his shoulder. “Do you want to mess with her?”

Amy laughs, “What?”

A sly expression Amy has never seen before sneaks onto his face, “Her dance partner Pablo is going to be performing with her. He’s a real nice looking boy. Gay as all get out too. Invite your friend Shane. I can introduce them.”

Amy gives him an appraising look, “Lauren’s head will explode.”

Bruce grins, “Maybe just a bit. But she’s always less nervous when she has something else to focus on. If her attention is on the boys she won’t have time to get worked up about her performance.”

He stands with a long stretch, “It’s just an idea.”

Amy texts Shane immediately.

 

“So this recital. Do you think it’s going to be more Dance Moms or Center Stage?” Shane asks as they make their way towards the theater doors, “I’m kind of hoping for Dance Moms. It’s not as sexy as Center Stage but those little girls are just precious.”

Farrah and Bruce are waiting for them in the crowded lobby. Shane glides up to them, his best parent pleasing smile firmly in place.

“Mr. Cooper. Farrah. So nice to see you again!” He gives Farrah an obvious once over, “Farrah I swear you get more stunning every time I see you.” 

Farrah glows, “Shane you’re such a flatterer! It’s lovely to see you. Although I can’t say I was expecting it.” She shoots Amy a quizzical look.

Bruce catches sight of something over their heads, “There she is.”

Lauren appears out of the crowd towing an immaculately coiffed Hispanic boy behind her. Her mania remains evident even from a distance. There is not a sequin missing on her costume. Not a hair is out of place. Each step she takes carries the tension of a loaded spring, ready to rocket her right out of her skin at a moments notice. She starts talking before she even reaches them.

“We only have a few minutes before we have to-“ she stops dead in her tracks, “What is he doing here?”

Shane puts on his most simpering voice, “I’m here to support you silly! That’s what friends do!” He pivots smoothly towards the boy holding out his hand, “Hi I’m Shane, and you are?”

Bruce, clearly holding in a laugh, claps the boy on the shoulder, “This is Pablo, Lauren’s dance partner.”

Pablo shakes Shane’s hand with a toothy smile, “Nice to meet you.”

Shane holds onto it a moment too long, “Strong grip. I like.” 

Lauren steps between them forcing Shane to drop Pablo’s hand, “No. Absolutely not.”

“I wasn’t even doing anything,” Shane whines.

“Lauren…” Amy ventures weakly.

Lauren holds up a finger, stopping her, “I will deal with you later.” She grabs Shane by his ear and pulls him down towards her, “Shane and I need to talk.”

She tugs Shane away from the group to a small chorus of ‘ows.’

Amy turns to Pablo, “Sorry about that. We haven’t met. I’m Amy.”

Pablo lights up, “Hi! I’ve heard so much about you!”

Amy grimaces, “That’s can’t be good.”

Pablo makes a dismissive gesture, “It’s not that bad.” 

Amy raises a challenging eyebrow. 

“If you know how to listen it’s not that bad.” Pablo amends, “Lala doesn’t always say what she means.”

A series of bells chimes through the lobby. Pablo glances over at Lauren, “We should get going.”

He slides over to Lauren and Shane nimbly extricating Shane’s ear and steering Lauren back towards Bruce and Farrah. They both give her careful hugs and wish her luck. She turns towards Amy. She is breathing heavily as though she spent the last few moments running a sprint rather than reaming out a classmate. Amy wonders if it is just her imagination, or if some of her nervous energy has been siphoned off, some release valve pressed. 

Amy gives her a quick hug, murmuring, “You’re going to kill it.”

She releases her and Lauren slips away, frantically following Pablo through a side door. The rest of them file into the theater and take their seats with the other parents and admirers. 

 

After five dance numbers Amy is sure she made a mistake. Rows and rows of little girls in tutus file out to do uncoordinated squats and turns to slow boring music. The tap number is even worse, a cacophony of metal on wood as the girls attempt to do something – anything – in unison. Things pick up a little when the first ballroom group comes out. The kids are a little older and there is something inherently sweet about watching them dance in pairs. Still, Amy can’t help but feel her eyes drooping shut as each instrumental piece fades into the next, and she’s not the only one, A quick glance around shows dozens of parents barely watching the stage. She’s about to drift into sleep when the opening bars of something familiar catch in her ear.

They’ve switched up the lighting on the stage, trading in the warm bright wash for a heavy blue backlight. Two dancers are posed in the dark, their black outlines contrasted by the background. The music picks up and suddenly Amy Winehouse comes crooning through the speakers. The dancers burst into action, coming together and spinning into motion. The lights come up bouncing off of two perfectly styled heads. 

Amy finds herself suddenly unable to tear her eyes away. Lauren and Pablo cut across the stage in perfect unison. Weightless, they glide impossibly smoothly around each other. Amy notices the rest of the audience returning their attention to the stage as well. The two dancers are masterful and everyone can see it. Winehouse wails about going back to black and Lauren hooks a leg around Pablo as he lowers her in a deep dip. 

The song ends and he pulls her back up. Bruce hoots and hollers as they join hands and bow. Amy claps enthusiastically joining the applause from the rest of the audience. 

“Whoo Pablo!” yells Shane over the crowd.

Amy swears she can see Lauren’s eyes narrow on stage. 

Lauren comes out again with other older girls to dance a ballet piece and a lyrical number. It’s abundantly clear that compared to the other girls Lauren is in a class of her own. Even when the other girls are able to keep the correct timing or match Lauren’s extension no one else is feeling the movement the way Lauren is. Amy can’t imagine what it’s like to be that good at something. How frustrating it must be to always have to wait for everyone to catch up.

The head of the dance studio comes out before the last piece. She thanks the parents for coming out and supporting their children and the arts. She encourages them to watch the final piece of the evening and to think about what can be done through dance. It is the only piece of the night to be choreographed by a student and she thinks it is truly stunning. She wishes the audience a wonderful night and as her final act introduces dancer Erik Soufi and dancer/choreographer Lauren Cooper.

An extremely familiar piece of music begins to play. Amy recognizes it as the piece that looped incessantly through her walls for days. Lauren and a male dancer chase each other out onto the stage. She wears a gauzy purple dress that matches the tight t-shirt the boy is wearing over a dark pair of pants with dangling suspenders. They together join in a graceful flowing waltz but it becomes apparent that this is not another ballroom piece. The music changes and their harmony is disrupted as Lauren begins to pull away, fighting the boy’s grip even as he pulls her closer. Their struggle draws them out of the waltz and into a more lyrical style as they push and pull each other around the stage. The music crescendos and Lauren breaks free. She banishes the boy and he take up a position behind her. She tries to start up the dance again alone, but this time she falters. The boy behind her mirrors her actions faltering as well. She tries again, entering into a leap, only to crumple to the floor. Behind her the boy falls to the ground as well.

Lauren looks around in devastation. Gently, the boy reaches out and lifts her up from behind. They begin to dance together both facing the same way. He lifts her, spinning her around and around until he puts her down and she spins to face him, her expression full of sorrow and regret. They hold each other’s gaze with intensity. Their ballroom dance resumes but with new, more complicated steps. In the last moments they gain momentum and the boy swings Lauren up in an enormous lift. She hovers in the air, supported by the male dancer, her arms stretch out as if she’s about to take flight. Inch by inch she comes back down to earth. When she is landed he holds up a hand. She stares at it and slowly she mirrors him. The lights go out.

Applause explodes through the theater. Bruce arc his hands in huge loud claps. Amy can see tears in his eyes. Shane whistles impressed. Farrah flutters her hands enthusiastically. Lauren and the male dancer bow, then Lauren takes a step forward and bows alone.

They wait for Lauren in the lobby. She comes out to another burst of applause from Bruce and Farrah. 

“That was amazing honey!” Bruce exclaims pulling her into a hug.

“Thanks Daddy,” says Lauren so quietly Amy almost doesn’t hear it.

Lauren is pulled away by the head of the studio before Amy can say anything, which is probably for the best. Amy isn’t sure she can put her reaction into words. Farrah tells Amy to meet them at home. She looks around for Shane. He has Pablo cornered against a wall. She watches them exchange phones and type in their numbers.

“That was more fun than I thought it would be,” Shane comments as they exit the building, “not Dance Mom’s fun, but still.” 

 

Amy is trying to psyche herself up for studying by playing a few rounds of Robot Unicorn Attack when the rest of the family gets home. Her door is open, so she hears Lauren approach before she sees her. 

“So…” Lauren leans against the doorframe.

“So?” Amy questions.

Lauren rolls her eyes, “So do you feel like you got a return on your investment?”

Amy smiles at the phrasing, “I do.”

“After you left one of the parents came up to me and asked if I was in an abusive relationship. Apparently she works at a shelter or something and ‘recognized the signs.’” Lauren crooks her fingers in air quotes, “And then I almost stabbed this bitch from my ballet class who kept telling people the piece was inspired by Twilight.”

“God people are idiots,” Amy groans. Lauren hums in agreement. 

“What did you think?” she asks nonchalantly, as if the question isn’t another test in Amy’s week of finals.

“Dude, you know I don’t know anything about dance.” Amy says evasively. 

Lauren doesn’t twitch, but somehow Amy can still read her disappointment at her non-answer. Amy remembers how the performance made her feel – like she was being shown the inside of someone’s beating heart. Something like that deserves more than a paltry ‘I don’t know.’ Amy exhales.

“I guess I thought the two dancers were like two halves of one thing. Like, you couldn’t really move without the guy and he couldn’t leave you, and you dressed the same. I can see how it could be a relationship, but to me the connection felt more powerful than that.” Amy flushes, embarrassed, “That’s probably completely wrong. Sorry.”

Lauren doesn’t say anything. She leans her head against the doorframe looking at Amy thoughtfully.

All Amy wants is for this moment to end, “It was really good? Like, you totally know what you’re doing out there...” 

The weak praise drops between them like a lead balloon. Lauren mercifully puts her out of her misery by asking if she can borrow Amy’s chemistry flashcards. Amy locates the cards on her nightstand and awkwardly tosses them over. They land at Lauren’s feet. She gives Amy a familiar disapproving sigh and shake of the head before picking them up and shutting the door behind her.

 

Amy finishes her last exam in the morning taking a moment to be eternally grateful that it is not a catch-22 and that only two more completely superfluous days of school remain. Shane announces his intention to spend the entirety of those two days texting Pablo while standing directly next to Lauren. He starts at lunch, camping out at the table next to hers and loudly commenting on every new text he receives while Lauren fumes. Where Shane goes so go the rest of the ‘cool kids.’ Ivy halfheartedly pitches a final school protest. The rest of the table shuts her down with Brenda leading the booing. Liam reappears from the art room. He takes a seat next to Lauren and shows her something on her phone. She studies it intently. Amy tries to catch a glimpse of the screen but Lauren turns off, handing it back to Liam. They talk about summer plans. Lisbeth and Leila are both heading to a summer long church knitting camp – they’ll be making blankets to send to the troops overseas! Leila gives Lauren a little nudge. There is still time for people to sign up. Lauren tells them she’d love to go but she’s already made plans to do literally anything else. Liam mentions he is trying to put together a summer art show for local talent. 

“I’m trying to find a space that would host us, but it’s hard to find something central that my artists can afford.”

Amy nods, “I get that. We’ve rented out the Twain a couple of times for low budget events. It can be tough to find a good space.”

“What are you doing this summer Amy?” asks Sasha, a girl with magenta tipped hair who Amy remembers for handing out free face wash when she was spearheading a campaign against micro beads for the marine biology club. 

“Working. Making a few college visits. Nothing special.” Amy replies. 

Sasha nods, “Well if you’re going to be in town you should totally help out with the eco film festival we’re trying to put together for August. It’s a collaboration between the marine biology club, the wilderness club, and the radical recyclers. We could definitely use someone to help us out with film selection.”

“Yeah, that sounds cool,” says Amy surprised.

It occurs to her for the first time that Sasha and the rest of Shane’s friends actually know who she is. Not just her name but details like where she works and what she’s interested in. Out of nowhere she feels an impulse to find Karma and tell her ‘We did it!’ because wasn’t this the whole point? To be friends with the popular kids? But it still feels as silly to Amy as it did when Karma started plotting at the beginning of the year. The cool kids are just kids. Sasha is a nice girl who likes to dye her hair and wants to swim with dolphins. Shane is just a teenager caught between the best and worst parts of his personality. And even though everything in Amy’s life has completely changed from what it was nine months ago she is still sitting in the school cafeteria wondering if she can get away with sleeping through the rest of the school day.

 

Lauren’s dance classes are on a two week hiatus after the recital which means Amy can call Reagan and talk to her for the whole drive home without any unwanted commentary. They are still discussing which movie to go to on their next date as Amy tosses her keys on the counter and jumps onto her bed.

“Ow!”

“You okay?” Reagan asks, her concern projecting through the tinny phone speaker.

“Yeah, there was just something…” Amy pulls out a hardcover book from underneath her lower back.

For a second she thinks it’s a textbook she forgot to return to the school, but the size is all wrong and it lacks the heft of high school academic texts. She registers the front cover printed with the words, ‘Intersex and Identity: The Contested Self.’ Why would a book about that be on her bed? She twists around searching – for what? She’s not sure. Something to explain how the book wound up here in her room. If it’s a prank it’s a poor one with no discernable joke. Maybe Farrah is trying to be supportive and bought the book thinking it was about lesbians? Then she sees the flash cards.

Her chemistry flash cards, neatly bound in a new rubber band, rest on the comforter behind her. Shifting the phone between her ear and her shoulder Amy picks up the cards with her right hand weighing them against the book in her left.

“Hey Reagan? I’m going to have to call you back.”

Amy hangs up the phone. Carefully she cracks open the book and flips through the pages. Yellow marks from where a highlighter has swiped over sentences jump out at her as she goes. She flips back to the introduction and starts reading.

 

Lauren isn’t at dinner and has already left for school by the time Amy appears dead-eyed in the kitchen the next morning. She made it three quarters of the way through 'Intersex and Identity' before passing out on its open pages sometime around three in the morning. She takes the coffee pot and empties it into a travel mug, draining it almost entirely before she gets to school. 

In first period they hand out yearbooks. The teacher seems content to let the students waste their time passing them around writing notes to each other in the back pages. Amy isn’t friends with anyone in the class. She dashes off ‘Have a great summer!’ for the few who ask her to sign, but otherwise uses her new collection of stupid photos to conceal the book she actually cares about. Three periods later only a few final pages remain. Mrs. Feldman passes behind her and shakes her head. 

“Amy where was this love of reading during the actual semester?”

She finishes the final page and then immediately flips back to the beginning. She hunts through all of the highlighted passages willfully burning the snippets of information into her brain. 

“CAIS – Complete Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome… genetically male… insensitivity to male hormones leas to female physical traits... Complete form of androgen insensitivity in 1 out of 20,000 births... Side effects: infertile… no uterus… no menstruation… low bone density… development of breasts… testes in the abdomen… lack of body hair… often discovered at puberty when there is no menstruation… supplementary estrogen replacement may be prescribed…”

She reaches the end of the highlighted portions and flips back to the beginning again making absolutely sure that she understands what she’s reading. Lauren left this book for her to find. A book with marked passages that clearly relate to a Differences of Sexual Development diagnosis. 

“You’re really into that yearbook huh?”

Amy’s head snaps up. She is surprised to find herself at her locker, not having noticed when the bell rang after the last period. She’s even more surprised when she recognizes the person standing in front of her. 

“Karma?”

Karma gives a little wave of her hand, “Hey.” 

She throws her whole body into the little movement, a nervous tick she’s never been able to shake. 

“Did you get to page eighty-seven yet?

Amy blinks as her brain scrambles to retrieve the information from page eighty-seven of a book that Karma is definitely not referencing, “What?” 

Karma opens up her own yearbook and passes it to Amy. She points to a spread dedicated to homecoming. The photo in the center shows Amy in her crown and Karma in her tiara arms wrapped around each other as they slow dance. The Amy in the picture looks terrified. She had come out to Farrah only moments before and wasn’t even sure if it was true. Karma, however, is stunning. Her lace red dress matches perfectly with the shining silver queen’s crown. Picture Karma gazes up at Amy without an ounce of fear. 

Karma peers down at the page, “I was so proud of you that day. Standing up to your mom like that.” 

Amy traces the edge of the picture with her finger, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Karma rummages in her bag pulling out a pen. 

“I’d really like you to sign it,” she says hopefully, “ I know a lot of stuff happened this year but you’ve never not signed one of my yearbooks.” 

If there is one truth that should be universally acknowledged it is that Karma has the worst timing of any human being Amy has ever met. Only she would decide to request a personalized note that references their infinitely complicated relationship at the moment Amy is reeling from new information about her stepsister. Amy makes a quick decision.

She hands Karma the book, “Do you mind if I sign it tomorrow? I’ll find you, I promise.”

To her credit Karma takes the request in stride. She tells Amy she’ll find her tomorrow and leaves.

Amy makes her way to the cafeteria her mind now a jumble of Lauren and Karma, new truths and old fictions. Lauren is intersex. Amy can think of no other explanation for the book. Which means… Amy’s not entirely sure. 

Things start to fall into place. The daily pills she pops are most likely estrogen supplements. Her bizarre freak-out in Tyler’s bathroom gains a new dimension. The pageants, her perfected appearance… they become part of a story she’s been telling about herself. The good Christian girl, the pretty popular girl, the high achiever – practically perfect in every way. It’s the kind of story people want to hear so she tells it over and over again as loudly as she can. Better than telling a truth that would leave her vulnerable.

Amy flashes back to their parents wedding. A devastated Lauren sat across from her and said Tommy had dumped her after she told him a secret. Amy feels an icy rage building in her chest. That asshole. Lauren opened herself up to him and he ran away. Suddenly Amy gains a new appreciation for Karma. Even though their relationship ended in disaster when Amy came clean about her feelings that day in her bedroom Karma didn’t run. In that moment she put her own feelings aside and gave comfort to her terrified friend. She made Amy feel safe.

In the cafeteria Shane has made good on his promise. He and his acolytes have once again taken over the table next to the one Lauren shares with Leila and Lisbeth. He holds court, sitting head and shoulders above everyone else on the edge of the table. He leans over Lauren to show her something on his phone. Lauren balls up a napkin and throws it, hitting him in the face. Everyone laughs. Shane catches sight of Amy approaching the table.

“Amy! Get you’re butt over here and stop this madness!” 

Lauren looks up. Their eyes meet for a split second before Lauren jerks hers away. Amy takes her place at the table. Shane points accusingly at Lauren.

“Would you please explain to Miss Pol Pot over here that she is not the dictator of Pablo’s love life?”

“Lolo is too good for you Harvey,” Lauren snaps, “He is kind and sweet and does charity work-“

“I do charity work!” Shane interrupts flinging his hand out expressively, “Right Amy?”

Amy raises an eyebrow, “Are you talking about the time you outed me and then forced me to run for homecoming king?”

Shane makes a face says ‘Yes! Obviously.”

“Sorry, I think I’m with Miss Pol Pot on this one.” Amy responds mildly.

Lauren spends the rest of the period resolutely looking anywhere but at Amy, which has the side benefit of giving Amy an unprecedented amount of time to study her. Amy knows better than to bring up any of the thoughts racing through her head while they are surrounded by a hundred potential eavesdroppers. With the way news travels down the halls of Hester it’s a miracle she got to keep her secret after Tommy found out. Amy is not about to be the one that ruins that for her. 

She wants to bridge the gap between them, to show Lauren that this time she took a chance on the right person, but she’s not sure how. If Amy’s learned anything from their time living together it’s that forcing Lauren to do anything only makes her more combative. So she takes her cue from Lauren. After school she stops at home before going to the Twain. She knocks carefully on Lauren’s door. There’s no response. She opens the door to the deserted room and carefully places 'Intersex and Identity' on the bed. She flattens the post it she’s left stuck to the front cover and leaves. 

On the final day of school the students float in and out of their assigned classes at whim. The teachers play elaborate games of hangman and dots. In history Liam spends the period drawing an elaborate abstract mural on the chalkboard. At lunch they pass around their yearbooks. Amy writes a long message to Shane and a short one to Lisbeth who tells her that despite their break up she is still a big Karmy fan. She even writes a note to Liam telling him she likes him better when he isn’t trying to sleep with other people’s girlfriends. Karma appears in her periphery, walking by with a group of drama students. Amy waves her over. 

“Hey, you still want to…?”

“Yeah!” chirps Karma pulling her yearbook out of her bag.

They exchange books. Karma’s is already full of notes. Amy reads over the names, some familiar some less so as they reference shared jokes Amy doesn’t know about and wish Karma a great summer. Amy finds a blank space and starts writing. When Karma had asked Amy had no idea what she would say, but now the words flow out of her. She thanks Karma for being such a good friend to her over the years and for always being honest with her, even when the truth was hard to hear. She tells writes about how even though their separation was necessary the last few months without her have been the hardest of her life. About how she never thought theirs was a friendship that would end. About how she still doesn’t. 

She leaves off there. Karma leans against the table tapping a pen against her lips, evaluating what she has written. On her other side Liam watches her with a soft look that feels achingly familiar. Karma blows on the ink, making sure it is dry and hand’s Amy’s book back to her.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely.

Amy smiles, “Wouldn’t want to break an eleven year streak.”

 

A familiar sharp knock cuts across Amy’s bedroom. For once she is expecting it. She jumps up and opens the door. Lauren stands outside clutching a short stack of books. She holds up a slightly mussed post-it note.

“You said you wanted more books,” she shifts the stack in her arms. Her face is a smooth expressionless mask. Amy takes a few steps back and waits until Lauren starts to follow her inside.

“Thanks. I’m actually really interested in the ethical debate about medical intervention.” She gestures for Lauren to put the books on her dresser. 

“You don’t have to do this.” Lauren says in a flat voice. “I don’t need your pity.”

Amy rolls her eyes, “Please, child actors need pity, what you need is someone who is going to call you on your crap.”

Lauren scoffs, “And you think that’s you?” 

“Go get your yearbook,” Amy commands. Lauren doesn’t move, “Go! Now!”

Lauren stomps out of the room like a petulant child, but returns with her Hester High yearbook in hand. Amy takes it and swaps it for her own, tossing a pen in Lauren’s direction. She flips to an empty page and writes, ‘Dear Lauren, You are exactly who I thought you were when I first met you. Irritable, frustrating, closed off, intelligent, freakishly pretty, and an all around pain in the ass. The difference is now I kind of like it. – Amy.’

She holds the book out to Lauren, who exchanges it for Amy’s. Amy flips it open and reads, ‘Dear Amy, your eating habits and your wardrobe are atrocious. Love Lauren.’

Amy grins, “Awwww, You said you love me!”

Lauren’s eyes narrow, “That’s not what I meant.”

Amy pokes her in the side. “Don’t lie.”

Lauren squirms away, “I hate you.”

Amy keeps poking at her until Lauren trips trying to avoid her and falls on her bed, “You love me.”

Amy flops on the bed next to her.

“So… Got anymore secrets for me Cooper?” 

Lauren looks over at her, haughty in a way no person should be able to pull off after literally tripping over their own feet, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Amy pokes her hard. Lauren flinches away, "Stop!"

"Never."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Amy is overcome with the growing certainty that she was right all along and Liam Booker is deliberately trying to mess with her."

The thing is…

The thing…

The thing is that it’s really hard to think about anything else when someone is sitting on top of you wearing only a bra and a pair of shorts so short they barely qualify for their name. Regan’s knees press into the mattress on either side of her and Amy’s brain short circuits into silence; thoughts replaced by sensory information as she drags her fingers up Regan’s outer thighs to slide them under the rough fabric that is just barely covering her ass. Regan tugs lightly at Amy’s lower lip and then dips down to plant a kiss just above her right breast and its…

The thing is that Amy lost her shirt roughly twenty minutes ago and now Regan’s hands are…

Oh that’s…

And somehow the top button on Amy’s jeans has popped open without her noticing it. Not that anything is happening there. Although if they keep going the way that they’re going... Not that Amy would want… or wouldn’t want… After all it feels so… but then…

A loud chime cuts through Regan’s bedroom like a knife. Amy breaks their kiss, craning her neck to look at the bedside table where her phone is flashing with a newly received text. It chimes again. Regan groans and collapses against Amy’s chest. Amy, almost grateful for the chance to regain her breath, reaches over and glances at the message.

“It’s from Lauren. I’m late to pick her up.”

Regan smiles against her neck, scraping her teeth lightly against the sensitive skin.

“So? Be a little late.”

Amy shivers as Regan kisses a spot right behind her ear, “I can’t… I’ve got work…” her words sound feeble to her own ears. Regan shifts, skimming her hands up Amy’s ribcage and nipping lightly at her earlobe. Amy lets out a sigh, “Okay. Just a little late…”

 

The door to the Twain bursts open nearly knocking over a customer as Amy barrels in at a flat sprint. She just manages to skid to a stop in front of the case of pastries, resting her head against the glass as she doubles over wheezing.

Dylan peers down at her from over the counter. “I’m guessing this is not the right time to tell you that Max wants to see you in the break room?” 

Amy holds up a finger silencing him. 

After a moment she straightens up, squares her shoulders, and runs a hand through her disheveled hair.

“Hope you’re not fired!” Dylan yells after her as she makes her way to the back of the shop.

 

Max at the staff room table, typing away so furiously at her laptop that she doesn’t even notice Amy’s entrance until she clears her throat.

Amy dives in before she can speak. 

“Look before we get into this I want to say that I know what your policy is on showing up late, and I know this is my seconds strike after the Lauren thing but I swear, nothing like this will ever happen again so…”

Max blinks up at her in confusion, “What are you talking about?”

Amy takes in Max’s rumpled look and dazed expression, neither of which communicates swift and immediate justice for the crime of being half an hour late to work.

“Nothing,” Amy says, covering with a smile, “Dylan said you wanted to see me?” 

“Yeah,” Max clicks away at the computer for a moment before looking back up, “Can you work next Friday? The night shift?”

Amy nods, “Sure. What’s the occasion? I never work nights.”

Max pinches the bridge of her nose; “I decided it would be a good idea to rent the Twain out for an art show because I am an idiot who likes to make more work for myself.”

“That sounds cool,” says Amy encouragingly.

Max sighs, “That’s the idea, but we are going to need a few extra hands if we are going to pull this off and I figured since the guy who is putting this together is your friend you should be on the team.”

“My friend?” Amy asks, puzzled.

“Yeah, he mentioned you when he came in,” Max shuffles through a few papers, picking one up and reading, “Liam Booker?

Amy feels her face freeze.

 

After her shift Amy swings by the dance studio to pick up Lauren. A few weeks ago Lauren was offered the chance to assistant teach the summer ballet classes for junior beginners. Now their schedules are in reverse, with Amy finishing work and walking over to the studio to wait for Lauren to be finished. Usually Amy sits in the waiting room with the parents and reads until the class lets out, but today she is wired, thanks in no small part to the news that Liam Booker is invading entirely new corners of her life. Instead she paces the hallway, catching snatches of “Clair de Lune” and “When You Wish Upon a Star” as she passes each classroom doorway. On her fourth trip down the hall a door a few yards ahead swings open and a lean woman in her twenties slips out leaving the door propped open behind her.

Curious, Amy creeps down the hall and peers though the open doorway. A dozen tiny girls, five or six years old at most, stand at attention, one hand on a bar placed in the middle of the room. Lauren walks down the line, her hands behind her back like a drill sergeant. 

She stops at the first girl, “First position. Plié.”

The girl dips into a squat and comes back up with all the grace a six year old can muster. Lauren gives a curt nod of approval. She moves onto the next girl.

“Second position. Demi-plié.”

The girl moves her feet apart and sinks into her knees a little. Lauren corrects her arm and repositions her feet, then has her repeat the action. This time she gets it right. Lauren moves on and Amy watches how each girl stands a little straighter as she approaches them. Lauren seems to inspire both awe and terror in equal measure, with the girls craving her approval as much as they fear her disappointment.

She reaches the last in the line, a beanpole of a girl, taller than her classmates by a few inches with messy brown hair falling out of its bun. 

Lauren looks down at the girl, “Third position. Plié.”

The girl uncertainly shifts her feet. 

Lauren arches an eyebrow, “Is that third Melanie?”

The other girls crane their necks to look. Melanie blushes.

“I forget,” she says quietly.

One of the other girls starts to giggle. A few others turn around completely to watch. Lauren catches the movement and whips her head around. “Ladies!” she barks, “Control yourselves!” 

The girls snap back to attention. Lauren kneels next to Melanie dropping her stern mask for a softer expression.

“Come on, you remember this. What did we do last week?” 

Cautiously Melanie moves her right heel to touch the arch of her left foot turning her toes out. Lauren gives her an encouraging smile, “Now plié.” 

Melanie dips into her plié, eyes on Lauren as she struggles to come up gracefully. 

Lauren nods, “Beautiful.”

The little girl beams. Amy cranes her neck to keep her in view as the instructor returns to the class, passing in front of where she is standing and closing the door behind her. With nothing left to see Amy gives up her position in the hall and returns to the waiting room. Ten minutes later the girls come streaming out of the hallway. Lauren follows them, hastily pulling a loose shirt over her leotard; her ballet shoes and bag in hand. 

She scans the room for Amy, brightening when she finds her behind one of the parents, “Hey. Let’s go.”

Amy scrambles awkwardly after her. A few of the girls call out, “Bye Miss Lauren!” as she passes. She waves and tells them she will see them next week.

Amy trails behind Lauren all the way to the car. As soon as she lands in the driver's seat she catches Lauren glancing at her.

“What?” Amy asks.

Lauren narrows her eyes with suspicion, “Your face is weird.” 

“Your face is a bitch.” Amy replies reflexively. Then, “Liam Booker is having an art show at the Twain.”

Lauren shrugs, “So?”

“It’s like he’s stalking me.”

Lauren snorts, “Liam Booker isn’t stalking you.”

“He’s doing something.” Amy insists.

“All he’s doing is turning his teen angst into shitty sculptures,” says Lauren with a note of finality, declaring the subject closed. 

 

Since Lauren will not share her outrage Amy calls Shane. He picks up on the second ring.

“Did you know about Liam doing an art show at the Twain?” she asks, skipping right past the standard hellos as she paces from one side of her room to the other.

“Oh didn’t I tell you about that?” Shane replies breezily, like news of the show just slipped his mind.

Amy pictures a Shane shaped punching bag and mentally kicks it in the face. “You know you didn’t.”

“Well whatever,” Shane chirps unfazed, “I’m going to bring Pablo. Liking art makes me seem cultured and cultured is sexy. Maybe staring at some paintings for an hour will loosen his chastity belt.” He pauses, “You should bring Regan. Get those lady-juices flowing.”

Amy pulls a face, “Ew.”

She can practically hear Shane wince, “I immediately regret saying that.” 

Amy gives herself a mental shake to evict the sound of Shane saying ‘lady-juices’ before considering the point.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that anyway.”

“Come on!” say Shane, exasperated, “You’re almost as bad as Pablo!”

Amy pauses, readjusting the phone, “I mean I like it when we… do stuff. But last time I decided to have sex it was the dumbest decision of my entire life. How do I know if I’m actually ready?”

“I don’t understand the question,” Shane responds, blankly.

Amy rolls her eyes in exasperation, “Why do I even talk to you?”

“Dude she’s hot!” exclaims Shane, “And she’s into you! And she doesn’t have weird morals or whatever! What more do you want?”

“Unlike you I don’t think ‘she’s hot’ is a good enough reason to have sex with someone!” Amy snaps.

Which, of course, is the exact moment Farrah picks to walk into the room with a basket of laundry. They both freeze. Amy’s phone drops out of her hand and she feels herself flush to Clifford levels of red. 

“That’s not…” she stammers, “It’s not what it sounded like!” 

“I don’t…” Farrah trails off. Amy leaps forward, wrestling the laundry basket out of her arms and then using it to nudge Farrah back towards the door.

Even as she is herded by wicker basket, a look of pure horror dawns over Farrah. She plants her feet, “We never had the talk…”

“I don’t need a talk!” Amy shouts desperately, nudging harder against her now resistant mother.

“Sex,” Farrah says loudly, her voice high, with a hysterical quality to it, “Sex is a beautiful thing between a man and a woman…” She stops herself abruptly, “I mean sex before marriage…” She stops again, “Condoms…” 

Now Farrah is the one that’s bright red. 

“Well I don’t know if y’all have some kind of condom, but if you do you’d better use it young lady!” she yelps and flees the room.

Amy hears a muted cackling sound coming from the floor. She looks around and spots her phone. The call is still going and on the other end Shane is laughing so hard he sounds like a cartoon hyena. Amy picks it up.

“Shut up!” she says preemptively, bringing the phone to her ear.

“Oh my god!” Shane crows, “Please let me send Farrah a box of dental dams!”

“No.”

“Come on! Please?” he pleads, “It’s like my new dream!”

Amy hangs up on him.

 

Karma comes into the Twain for coffee. She’s been doing that more and more since the end of the school year. They never talk much, but the fact that they are talking at all is such progress Amy suspects neither of them wants to push it. 

“So what’ll it be?” Amy asks gesturing to the menu board.

Karma looks it over, “How about an iced mocha with caramel?”

Amy smirks as she writes down the order on Karma’s cup, “Caramel and chocolate with coffee? That’s disgusting.”

“Yes your feelings on the matter are well documented,” says Karma. She sounds annoyed, but Amy sees her eyes spark with recognition at the old gripe.

She waits at the counter as Amy messes with the machines, and maybe it’s the lull of their familiar rapport or the fact that literally no one else is around with Tyler on his break, but Amy finds herself handing the drink across the counter and asking the one question most likely to atom bomb their fragile truce - “Did you and Liam ever end up having sex?”

Pure panic flashes across Karma’s face. 

Mortified Amy immediately backtracks, “Shit! That’s not what I meant…” 

But after months of playing out the final angles of their awkward and ill-fated love triangle, and from the way she is backing away from the counter, Amy bets Karma isn’t giving her the benefit of the doubt.

She tries again, desperate, “I… you know I’m dating Regan.” 

That gets Karma to halt. She gives a hesitant nod.

Quickly Amy presses on, “And she’s great. Like super great, but we haven’t…”

“Oh!” Karma’s eyes go wide.

Amy concentrates on a particularly scuffed potion of the counter, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks, “Yeah.”

It’s only when Karma places her drink back on the counter and into Amy’s line of sight that she looks up. Karma’s expression is gentle. 

“Why do you think that is?” she asks in a low voice.

Amy shrugs, “I don’t know. Shane thinks I should just get it over with.”

Karma gives a huff of exasperation, “Shane is an idiot. And a boy.”

“Same thing.” Amy agrees, and she hears Karma mumble the same words right along with her almost in unison. They break into identical smiles that dispel any lingering tension from Amy’s awkward question.

A small smile still lingering at her lips, Karma says, “Look, last time you tried forcing the issue it was kind of a disaster.”

Disaster is actually a bit of a pleasant understatement for what went down, but Amy concedes the point. 

“Wait ‘til you’re ready.” Karma says firmly, “If Regan cares about you she’ll understand. Okay?”

Amy nods, “Yeah.”

Karma picks up her drink and turns to leave.

“Hey Karma?” Amy asks.

Karma pauses, looking back.

“Did you sleep with Liam?” 

Karma gives a short resigned laugh, “You really want to know?”

It’s stupid. It shouldn’t matter. Not with what they have both been through. Not with where they are now. Still, she keeps staring until Karma looks her straight in the eyes and says, “No Amy. I did not sleep with Liam Booker.”

Amy nods briskly, as if they had some kind of business that has now been concluded. Karma shakes her head again and exits. As she does, Amy feels some final weight she didn’t know she had been carrying lift from her chest. A selfish, angry little piece of herself that she can finally let go of. 

 

Max gathers them all in the break room on Thursday night to go over the final plan for the art show. She lays out all of the pieces like a general outlining an attack:

1\. Amy will meet Liam on Friday morning before the shop opens and help load the art pieces into the break room.  
2\. At 5:30pm the shop will close. They will clear out all customers so they can set up for the event.  
3\. Amy and Dylan will give the Twain a thorough cleaning while Tyler and Max help Liam hang and place the various pieces around the space.  
4\. Brad and Vanessa (of the elusive night shift team) will arrive at 7:30pm and get the bar ready.  
5\. The Twain will reopen at 8:00pm for the show, during which Amy and Tyler will run the coffee counter until the end of the event.  
6\. Dylan will return at the end of the night to help Liam, Brad and Vanessa break things down and load out.  
7\. Max will finally gets some sleep.

The last point is added by Dylan, but Amy and Tyler are quick to agree. Max looks exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and her typically buoyant curls lacking their usual joy de vive. Between her summer classes, the usual Twain business and Liam’s event she’s spread herself so thin she seems like she could tear at any moment. 

“We’ve got this.” Tyler reassures her, “It’s going to be great.”

“Damn right it is,” Max growls, “If I have to kill everyone in this place to make it happen.”

 

Liam comes in as scheduled in the early hours of Friday morning. He eases a handcart loaded with paintings over the slight bump of the doorframe and Amy, yawning, directs him to the break room where he carefully unloads them against one wall. He returns to his car and comes back with a couple of sculpture pieces shrouded in layers of bubble wrap wedged inside the edges of the cart. Despite his careful movements as he lifts the cart inside a second time one of the sculptures shifts, wobbling like a top coming to the end of it’s spin. Amy reacts without thinking, diving forward from her position holding open the door and catching the bubble wrapped piece of art just as it tips over the edge.

“Shit!” Liam brings the rest of the cart gently inside before checking on Amy and the sculpture now cradled in her arms. 

“You’ve got serious reflexes!” he exclaims, checking the piece for damage.

“Yeah. Fastest hands in the west or whatever,” Amy replies dryly. 

Liam either doesn’t pick up on her sarcasm or chooses to ignore it. He takes the sculpture and transfers in back to the cart, making sure it is firmly secured.

“This was a great suggestion,” he says, following Amy to the break room, “It’s exactly what we were looking for. I had no idea they did events like this.”

Amy refrains from pointing out that “suggestion” is really too strong a word for one halfhearted interaction on the last day of school. Instead she opens the break room door with a vaguely positive, “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Liam pushes the cart through the door and begins carefully unloading the wrapped sculptures onto the table. Amy doesn’t offer to help, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Nor does he notice her complete disinterest their interactions, because after a moment he starts talking again.

“You know, after Karma and I uh…” he hesitates, “well, after that ended, everything I worked on became about her and uh… it all sucked.”

That surprises Amy into a laugh. Liam grins at her, doubling down, “I mean hardcore sucked. Like I had to destroy the evidence.” 

Now that he knows he’s got her hooked he presses on, “I ended up starting from scratch. Instead of drawing from my own emotions I started taking inspiration from outside. I got really into the idea of capturing movement. I think it really helped me with all the Karma stuff.”

“So you moved on by studying moving?” Amy drawls, unimpressed.

Liam laughs, “Literal I know. I never claimed to be deep.” 

Amy almost laughs again. She can tell he is working hard, trying to charm her, although she couldn’t say why. 

“To be able to organize a show for other artists. It’s meant a lot to me. I think I got some of my pride back. I just wanted to say thank you, for giving me the idea to use this space and everything else.”

What he means by “everything else,” Amy has no idea. Trying to figure it out proves so distracting that she doesn’t even realize that Liam has unloaded two more cart-fulls of art into the break room and is ready to leave. Before he goes he asks Amy to make sure Lauren knows when the show starts, he’s sure she’ll want to be there. It’s the second bizarre thing he’s said in the span of ten minutes and Amy is overcome with the growing certainty that she was right all along and Liam Booker is deliberately trying to mess with her.

 

Regan calls her on her way home. It’s still ungodly early, so she has probably been up all night working, and is only getting home now. Amy hits ignore. She isn’t in the right headspace to explain that she thinks the handsome idiot jackass that she once almost had a threesome with, and is now sort of her tangential friend, is trying to punk her. Instead she texts a few random emojis and an invite to pick her up after she gets off shift at Liam’s show.

 

Lauren is at the kitchen table eating breakfast when Amy comes in.

“Liam Booker wants you to know his stupid art show starts at eight,” Amy says by way of a greeting.

Unfazed, Lauren lifts up her spoon with a carefully measured scoop of yogurt and granola.

“Then I guess I should pick out a stupid outfit,” she replies.

Amy rests her forearms on the back of Lauren’s chair, leaning over her shoulder.

“Be honest, how long has this secret romance been blossoming?” she asks.

Lauren twists in her seat and smiles meanly, “Why? You jealous?” 

Amy raises her hands as if to say ‘you caught me,’ “Yes. So jealous of your love for Frankenteen.” 

Lauren lets her eyes go dreamy; “I like to think of him as the guy from Rocky Horror. Big, dumb, looks great in a gold speedo...” 

Amy gags, “Ugh. Now I have that image in my head.”

“Serves you right,” Lauren says primly, returning to her yogurt.

 

Amy spends the rest of the morning in bed with a pillow over her eyes to shut out the light. She resumes her shift at the Twain in the early afternoon and makes lattes and iced drinks until Max ushers the remaining customers out with frenzied hands at 5:29. Liam shows up at 5:30 on the dot and Tyler follows him back to the break room to stage and unwrap the art. Amy throws herself into cleaning, sweeping up every last crumb and polishing the counters to a high shine. Anything really, that will keep her eyes of Liam, because every time she looks at him she can’t shake the image of him wearing a tiny metallic gold briefs.

Cleaning carries straight into helping Brad and Vanessa of the night crew stack most of the chairs and tables behind the bar, which segues directly into reopening the doors at 8:00. By the time Amy has a chance to catch her breath the Twain is already packed with appreciators of the arts. For a moment Amy is shocked at the size of the turnout before she remembers that this is, essentially, a party thrown by Liam Booker. Examining the crowd more closely she spots more than one of his usual admirers. 

From her position behind the counter she can see almost none of the actual art pieces and the guests ordering drinks keep her too busy to really look. Ivy gives her a wave as she passes by with a group of familiar faces from Hester. Principle Penelope orders a double shot espresso and excitedly points out the couple of local art critics Liam has lured into the building. About an hour into the festivities Shane shows up with a dapper Pablo on his arm. He points at the art and gives her an exaggerated wink over his date’s shoulder.

Amy powers through Tyler’s break, grateful when he rejoins her and takes over the actual coffee production as she jots down orders and dishes out pastries. It’s not until Max swings by behind her, tapping Amy on the back and telling her to take a break, that Amy realizes they are more than half way through the night.

Still overtired and overworked, Max has decided to combat her sleep-deprived appearance by smearing gold glitter under her eyes and along her cheekbones. The combination has the unintended effect of turning her into a cross between a zombie and some kind of woodland fairy from a children’s book. As she slumps dramatically over the counter, exhaustion weighing on her, Amy notices more than a few of the guests, male and female, eyeing her from afar. She can see why. Despite, or maybe because of, her lack of effort, Max looks like a slightly consumptive runway model.

Amy shakes her head admiringly, “Please tell me they’ll teach me how to be you when I get to college.”

Max looks at her piteously, “I feel like I’m dying.”

She pats Max on the shoulder sympathetically as she passes out from behind the counter.

Freed from her coffee making prison Amy sheds her apron and wanders onto the floor. The walls are hung with two dozen paintings of different sizes and styles. A few landscapes show familiar Austin skylines. On a large canvas one shade of blue peels away in strategic places to show a different hue underneath. Another painting depicts an interpretive portrait of a Jack Russell terrier. Amy would never claim to know anything about art, but it’s clear even to her that Liam’s friends are talented. Liam himself is responsible for three of the large sculpture pieces grouped in the center of the room. She’s seen enough of his work to recognize the style - scrap metal and found objects forming tall lean towers. 

As she looks at them she realizes the towers are actually human figures, the clutter at their bases giving way to more defined bodies - women’s bodies - stretching, reaching, out of the rougher unmolded scrap. Even from across the room she can see what Liam meant about trying to capture movement. The three pieces are not frozen in a specific pose; they are in transition from one action to another. The bodies rise and fall, tendons pulling, muscles tense but not static, giving the impression that they are in motion. 

Something itches at the back of Amy’s brain, pulling her closer. There is a familiarity to Liam’s pieces that she can’t quite place. She lets her eyes trace along one figure’s extended arm to the delicate turn of its wrist, then back up the smooth curve of its neck to the angled planes of its face, pulled taught in a look of concentration that Amy knows all too well. 

He captures her perfectly, the poise, the posture, down to the way her lips purse when she’s focused a particularly difficult chemistry question on one of Amy’s work sheets. Lauren’s delicate form emerges from the scrap, her chest rising powerfully skywards, her legs dragged down, disappearing into a clutter of spare parts. Each of the figures (dancers, Amy corrects herself) is Lauren in a different pose. Lauren mid-turn. Lauren’s arm falling as her leg rises. Lauren, poised to jump, like a bird about to take flight.

Amy drinks her in, every line, every curve, finding herself drawn to the parts she hasn’t yet committed to memory. It is such a luxury to be able to look at her this freely, without Lauren there to -

“Do you think my arms look fat?”

Amy nearly jumps out of her skin. The real, living, breathing, Lauren stands right beside her, eyeing the sculpture critically.

“What?” Amy yelps, unable to process the human Lauren, her hair braided carefully back, her skin pale against a bold floral print dress, so close to her effigies. 

“My arms,” Lauren points at the sculpture, “they’re fat. I wouldn’t have agreed to this bullshit if I knew he was going to get my arms wrong.”

“Lauren, these are…” Amy cycles through adjectives in her mind; breathtaking, startling, overwhelming, “…incredible.” Her voice comes out almost hoarse in it’s earnestness.

Lauren’s ears go pink. She keeps her eyes on the sculptures, “Whatever. They’re okay.”

And a familiar sensation takes Amy over, the same one that she pushed back at the dance recital and again the other day while watching Lauren teach. The feeling that had started to linger at the edges of their study sessions and nights spent together on the couch. Amy tries to swallow it now, but it brims up again, unwilling to be quenched, insistent on being acknowledged. As if she can sense it Lauren turns to her, her clear blue eyes dark and bottomless in the Twain’s dimmed lights.

“Hey lady!”

The sound of Regan’s voice violently tears Amy back to reality.

“Regan, hey…” Amy says weakly as Regan crosses to her, loops an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in for a quick kiss.

“Hi Lauren,” Regan nods to her with a bright smile, “Cool statues.”

Amy can’t tell if Lauren’s “Thanks,” is especially curt or if she’s just imagining it.

“You almost done here?” Regan asks, looking around the show with interest.

Amy nods, “My shift’s over in half an hour,” she glances uneasily at Lauren, “I’ve got to -”

Lauren waves her off with dismissive disinterest, already turning towards one of their schoolmates. Regan pecks her on the lips and pushes her playfully away. Amy slinks back to the counter, looking over her shoulder as Regan and Lauren drift apart, each disappearing into the crowd.

 

She finishes her shift in a daze, barely noticing when Max shoves a wad of cash into her hands muttering, “Maaaaad tips yo.” 

Making one last trip to the break room Amy nearly trips over a small painting left propped just inside of the door, unhung. Cursing under her breath, she stops and picks it up. It’s a portrait, or part of a portrait, done in dozens of bright almost neon colors. For the second time that evening Amy experiences a rush of recognition. The painting shows little more than a smile, the curve of a chin, and a wave of hair but Amy recognizes the subject as if it was a police sketch.

“Oh, fuck you Liam,” she exhales bitterly.

As if summoned by his name the door swings open behind her and Liam Booker shuffles in looking tired but happy. Then his eyes land on Amy holding the painting and he visibly deflates.

“I thought you said you destroyed all of the stuff you made about her,” says Amy, giving the painting one last look before offering it to Liam.

He takes it.

“I did. I just couldn’t shake this one.”

Amy nods with understanding.

“Hey can you do me a favor?” she asks.

Liam blinks, surprised, “Sure.”

“Next time you feel the urge to paint or sculpt or whatever, hire a goddamn model. Preferably one that doesn’t go to our high school.”

She leaves him gaping behind her. Reentering the Twain, Amy finds Regan in the crowd. Her fingers wrap around Regan’s wrist, tugging her toward the door. She spares one last look at the dancers, their inspiration now nowhere to be found. 

Turning to Regan, Amy fixes a bright smile in place, “Let’s get out of here.”

 

They are in the backseat of Regan’s car and Regan is leaning over her and all Amy wants is to stop thinking. She slides her hands up and under Regan’s tank top and lets her nudge her legs apart with her knee, slide her thigh against the inseam of Amy’s jeans. Amy pulls her in closer, grabbing her ass for leverage, trying to feel nothing but this. For a moment it works; Regan’s lips move against her own, her hands cup Amy’s breasts, and it is everything. Then the moment ends as a flash of blonde streaks across Amy’s mind. She looks up and Regan’s dark eyes and hair give way to those of a much lighter shade. Familiar lips purse with concentration.

Amy pulls back abruptly, banging her head against the car door.

Regan, concerned, gasps. “Jesus! You okay?”

And the thing is… 

The thing is… she’s really not. Regan must be able to tell because she sits up and shifts over to the other side of the car. She lifts a hand and rubs the back of it against her closed eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath.

“Is it Karma?” she asks finally, turning back to Amy. Her voice is even and clear, but her chin quivers slightly as she speaks.

Maybe this is what going crazy feels like. Amy tries to push it down. Say something. Say anything that will let her go back to making out with this stunning, fun, wonderful girl. But all that comes out is - 

“No.”

Regan looks as bewildered as Amy feels.

 

Regan is kind enough to drop Amy off at home, or maybe she just wants Amy to feel the full force of her disappointment. She stops at the base of the driveway and Amy gets out. They don’t say goodbye. 

Amy drags herself, lead footed, up the stairs. Her unmade bed calls to her, but the long day has left her face feeling greasy so she turns instead to the bathroom to give it a wash and brush her teeth.

She doesn’t even bother to register surprise when she opens the bathroom door and finds Lauren there, drying her freshly washed face with a towel. She just stands in the doorway and lets herself stare.

Lauren drops the towel below her eyes and gives Amy a look, “What?”

Amy doesn’t move, she doesn’t even breathe. 

“God you’re such a freak,” she says, with the barest shake of her head. Amy takes in the pale pink of her lips, the way her hair is still wavy after being freed from it’s braids. The fine fringe of her eyelashes, blonde without their daytime mascara.

No. 

It can’t be.

Lauren exits with another shake of her head and Amy finally remembers to breathe.

She lets her lungs fill until she feels they could burst. She closes her eyes and Lauren is there too, burned onto the backs of her eyelids.

Not again. 

Please not again…

And her heart, ever the betrayer, beats faster in her chest. Telling her what she absolutely does not want to hear.

She has feelings for Lauren freaking Cooper.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you ever had feelings for someone that you know categorically will never like you back?"
> 
> “Uh, I think you just described the queer experience.”

“It’s the principal of the thing! Like, she can’t just expect me to drop everything to cover her ass. I have a life! Or I would if this place wasn’t so boring.”

“Cool…” Amy utters, absently.

She’s focused on a spot of tarnish on the side of the espresso machine. Picking up a cloth, she attacks it, not stopping until she can see her own flushed face mirrored back at her in the newly polished metal. When she’s finished she looks for another spot, another stain, anything that will allow her to keep her head down and avoid looking at –

“No Amy, it is not cool!” Lauren leans over the counter insistently bringing her head in line with Amy’s, “Are you even listening to me?”

Amy jerks away wildly at the intrusion, “What?”

Lauren gives a huff of annoyance, “God, you’re useless. I was saying,” she hits the word extra hard to communicate her disappointment in Amy’s poor listening skills, “that Hillary is totally dumping her shifts at the studio on me so that she can go to a music festival or something with her boyfriend, who - I am fairly certain - has an undiagnosed skin condition.”

In lieu of a response Amy drops down behind the counter where she dedicates herself to checking the expiry dates on all of the cartons in the milk fridge. Lauren peers down at her and Amy feels it like a prickling on the back of her neck.

“What’s wrong with you?”

It’s all Amy can do not to burst into hysterical laughter at the question. After all, she’s been asking herself the same one all week. 

“I’m just, like, really busy,” she responds, voice muffled as she buries herself further in the fridge.

Above her Lauren lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like “Bullshit.”

Reluctantly Amy removes herself from the fridge and stands. Lauren is still stretched over the counter. For a brief second Amy imagines pinning her there, leaning forward and… As their eyes meet Amy feels her cheeks flush uncontrollably. It’s mortifying, and any hope that it will go unnoticed is dashed when Lauren reaches out and lays the back of her hand against Amy’s forehead. 

“Are you feeling okay?” she asks, her hand burning against Amy’s skin, “You’re all red…”

Amy screws her eyes shut taking a long steadying breath through her nose. She can do this. She can –

Lauren’s hand falls from her forehead then reappears, knuckles softly brushing the side of her cheek. Amy’s eyes pop open in surprise, the air in her lungs rushing out all at once. Blue veins branch like a tree beneath the skin of a pale wrist only inches away from her lips. Unthinking, Amy reaches up, wrapping her fingers around it. Maybe she means to peel the hand away but instead she hangs there, feeling Lauren’s pulse beat under the pads of her fingers. Blonde tipped eyelashes, rendered long and sooty through the liberal application of mascara, flutter. Lauren seems caught between confusion and genuine concern. Amy wonders if she knows how beautiful she is when she is being careful.

The chime of the Twain door cuts between them like a knife. Lauren snatches her hand back as if it’s been burned. Amy pivots towards the sound so fast she gives herself momentary whiplash. The door closes behind a girl she recognizes from Hester. Desperate for the distraction, Amy energetically waves her over. 

“SASHA!” she calls. She and Lauren both wince at the loudness of her voice. 

Sasha, a fixture of the Shane Harvey/ Liam Booker social circle, waves, “Hi Amy! Hey Lauren!” 

Lauren fixes on a smile as Sasha approaches the counter, “Sasha!” she says, brightly, “Love the new look.”

Sasha smiles and tugs on the ends of her hair. Sometime over the summer she traded her magenta tips for a vibrant shade of aquamarine. The color suits her, but Lauren is lying through her teeth about liking it. Amy knows this because shortly after Lauren moved in she found an old box of blonde dye in Farrah’s bathroom and nearly threw a fit. She made Farrah swear to never use cheap over the counter dye again and immediately scheduled them both appointments with a stylist. Farrah had insisted Amy come along too. Amy was forced to spend two hours in the salon reading two-year-old People magazines while Lauren and Farrah bonded over their shared dislike of unnaturally colored “clown hair.”

“So, um… coffee?” Amy interjects, pointing at the menu.

Sasha shakes her head, “Actually, I’m really here looking for you.”

“For me?” Amy asks, skeptically. 

“Do you remember the Eco Film Festival I was telling you about at the end of school?” 

Amy dredges a vague memory of a conversation at their shared lunch table.

“Totally,” she lies with enthusiasm, “I definitely remember that.”

Sasha beams, “Great! If you’re still willing to help out we could really use a hand with programming. We’ve gotten, like, a hundred submissions and we need someone with a critical eye to help narrow it down and decide what to show.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Lauren remarks, voice laden with suspicion, “What does Amy get out of it?”

Sasha visibly gulps. It would seem that, despite the unofficial truce that carried through the end of the school year, Lauren’s reputation still has enough bite to make the poor girl react as though she accidentally stepped on a fire ant colony. 

“Um… it’ll look good on college applications?” Sasha replies, glancing between Amy and Lauren uncertainly, “I mean, if you’re busy I’ll understand…”

She stars to slowly back away and Amy is consumed with the urge to strangle Lauren with her bare hands. Here is a perfectly acceptable buffer for the untapped depth of awkwardness now between them and Lauren is scaring her away. Wanting anything but to be left alone with her increasingly ridiculous feelings and the oblivious five-foot terror causing them, Amy swings under the counter following Sasha.

“I’m about due for my break, why don’t we go talk about it -” she glances at Lauren, “- somewhere else.”

Lauren scowls. 

Amy steers Sasha towards the door calling, Max, I’m taking my fifteen!” over her shoulder. Max flicks her hand up in acknowledgement; still absorbed in the inventory sheet she’s checking.

“Sorry about that,” Amy says once she has Sasha safely outside, “she’s just… Lauren.”

Sasha laughs, “Yeah, she’s a little intense.”

Intense is the word, Amy thinks, drifting back to their exchange mere moments earlier.

“So listen,” Sasha begins, suddenly nervous, “there is one thing I want to make sure is okay.” 

She hesitates. Impatient, Amy’s attention wanders. Through the Twain window she catches sight of Lauren, now back at her usual table with her head bent over a book. Ever so slowly, and without so much as glancing up, Lauren raises her hand and slowly unfurls a dramatic middle finger in Amy’s direction. Amy chokes out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. A laugh because the timing and execution of the gesture are so perfect and a sob because she is so utterly screwed.

“Oh god, is it too much? I knew it was too much. I’ll tell her no.” Sasha’s voice anxiously breaks through Amy’s preoccupation.

Amy turns to her in confusion. “Sorry, what?” she asks.

“I’ll tell Karma that we have enough people working on the festival.” Sasha replies flapping her hands in a manner that Amy guesses is meant to be reassuring, “I get it. You two are exes. Working together would be totally awkward. And I did ask you first…”

Out of the corner of her eye Amy catches Lauren smirking into the pages of her book, hand now laid innocently on the table.

“I mean, we really could use her help organizing, but –“

“It’s fine,” says Amy, cutting Sasha off.

“Really?” Sasha asks hopefully.

Amy nods, trying and failing to keep her attention on the girl in front of her and not the one behind the glass, “Yeah. We’re good. We’re whatever.”

Which is how Amy finds herself signed up to spend the rest of her summer working with her ex-girlfriend. 

 

What Sasha failed to mention in their talk was that when she said she needed Amy and Karma’s help, what she meant was that she needed Amy and Karma to take over practically every part of the festival. Even though the event was pitched as a cooperation between the Eco Club, the Marine Biology Club, and the Radical Recyclers – an organization of proto-socialists devoted to spreading the gospel against plastic and playing loud punk music – most of the members of those clubs where away for the summer. Among them all of the members dubbed “planners,” leaving them with what Sasha refers to as the “idea people.” A week later Karma comes into the Twain in a blind panic carrying three binders worth of “mood boards” and an incomprehensible spreadsheet of approximate costs. Amy makes her one of those sickeningly sweet chocolate, caramel iced coffees she likes so much and joins her when her shift is over.

“What the hell did we get ourselves into?” Karma asks, flipping though the binders in horror.

“Actually this one kind of reminds me of the thing you made for me when you decided we were going to be lesbians,” Amy remarks, eyeing a page full of magazine cutouts of eco-friendly celebrities.

“This isn’t even ecologically friendly!” Karma exclaims, either ignoring Amy or too caught up in her own frustration to have heard her, “It’s a complete waste of paper! I’m beginning to question their commitment to their cause.”

She buries her head in her hands and groans. Amy gently pulls the binder away from her.

“We just need to treat this like one of your plans for school domination,” Amy suggests, “Remember that time you were tried to get Lady Gaga to play the Inclusivity Rally? You have every contingency mapped out, every detail. We tweeted every person in her entourage on 20-minute intervals for a month. When her manager wouldn’t call you back you even tracked down their mother and called her house.”

“And she got a restraining order!” Karma reminds her, “Amy, none of those plans ever worked.”

“Maybe that’s because you came up with them for the wrong reasons,” Amy says encouragingly, “If you focused more on the actual thing you were doing than becoming popular maybe they would have turned out differently.”

“You’re probably right.” Karma sighs, “If there’s one thing that I’ve learned the last year it’s that you can’t force people to like you.” She gives Amy a rueful smile; “I guess we both found that out the hard way.”

Her words ring in Amy’s ears hours later as she passes Lauren the salad bowl at family dinner. 

 

The biggest problem for Amy since the night of the art show is that she’s started noticing things. Or more accurately, she’s started to notice all the things she’s been noticing all along. Things like how Lauren will opt for a darker lip color when she is feeling insecure and wants to appear more confident. Or the microscopic crinkling of her eyes when she watches Bruce lean down to whisper in Farrah’s ear. Things like how, when she joins Amy on the couch to watch TV, Lauren deliberately sits ramrod straight, as if waiting for Amy to bully her into a more comfortable position. And her disappointment, so masked it ‘s nearly impossible to read, when Amy doesn’t.

Instead Amy sits straight too. Her hands clenched in her lap, her chin pointed resolutely ahead. 

She wishes she knew what to call it, the mess of emotions and thoughts swirling through her mind and body, but like so many other aspects of her life it seems to defy labels. It’s not a crush. Amy has had crushes before, full of silly daydreams and profile stalking. This is more complicated. There are times when she doesn’t even like Lauren. When Lauren drives her so crazy that she just wants to scream. If forced to put her feelings into words, Amy might liken the experience to wading into a river- an initial shock, like stepping in cold water, followed by an inexorable force pulling at her, asking her to follow it, the tug of a strong current. And with every new step the water gets deeper and deeper. Deep enough to drown in.

“Hey, you liked those sculpture things at the art show right?” Lauren asks, interrupting what is likely the most boring thirty-minute documentary on tree frogs ever produced by appearing in Amy’s doorframe.

Amy pauses the video, one of the many submissions from the upcoming festival, and sits up on her bed.

“They were cool,” she says evenly, because there is no casual way of saying ‘I think they broke me.’

Lauren frowns, “Liam wants to enter them in some multi-media art fair thing. He asked me if I would perform a dance that incorporates his pieces.”

Amy gives a non-committal shrug, “Okay.”

Lauren studies her intently, “Do you think I should do it?”

Amy just shrugs again. A flash of anger crosses Lauren’s face.

“Whatever.” 

She pops herself off the doorframe with her hip and disappears into the hallway. Amy reminds herself that it’s not fair to take her confusion out on Lauren. She is, for all intents and purposes, an innocent bystander to Amy’s latest attempt to fuck herself over. 

“Lauren…” she calls apologetically, and it’s enough that Lauren returns and hovers in hallway.

“It’s your fault I modeled for those things in the first place,” Lauren sniffs, tossing off the admission as if it’s not the most totally baffling thing she’s ever said.

“What?”

There must be something she’s misunderstanding, because the implication is that something she did inspired Lauren to spend hours working with Liam Booker - an accusation that Amy finds harsh and unfair.

“After the Karma thing you were a complete tragedy,” Amy makes a noise of protest which Lauren ignores, “But then it’s like you opened up and you were trying new things and meeting new people, and you seemed… happy. So when Liam asked me to try something I wouldn’t usually do, I said yes.” 

She pulls a face, like she has a bad taste in her mouth, “You… inspired me… or whatever…”

And just like that the walls Amy has been struggling to build have new cracks in them.

“You should do it,” she says, giving in for just a moment and letting that warm feeling brim up in her chest, “You’d be great.”

Lauren grins, pure and open, and all Amy can think is that whatever the fuck this is? She needs to lock it down. Fast.

 

Growing up with a friend like Karma, Amy never had to process any of her emotions alone. From her earliest memories Amy had Karma as a constant sounding board for all of her secrets and hidden thoughts. Every problem was talked through, sometimes to death. And when Karma became the problem, Shane shifted into her old role with barely a hitch. One of the unexpected consequences of Amy’s Lauren “situation” is that there is no one she can confide in about it. Despite the recent repairs in her relationship with Karma, they are still light-years away from the kind of friendship they used to share. Farrah and Bruce are both off the table for extremely obvious reasons and while Shane will call her to analyze the most recent text message from Pablo, he’s started referring to Lauren as “La Diabla.”

“I was going with ‘El Diablo’ but then Pablo corrected my gender agreement.” Shane tells her as he sucks down an iced cappuccino before jetting off to the local pool for his lifeguarding shift. “He’s so smart… I swear, if we stay together I am going to effing ace Spanish this year.” 

It’s lonely, not having anyone to confide in. Amy finds herself running through the arguments and rationalizations she thinks Karma or Shane might make. She imagines a debate between the two sides of her brain, entities she taken to calling “Sane Amy” and “Idiot Amy.” Sane Amy does most of the talking, explaining Amy’s feelings away through Stockholm syndrome, emotional transference, lack of strong parenting, and a thousand other rational sounding theories. Idiot Amy just waits, and eventually, when Sane Amy has talked herself out, calls up an image from six months ago of Lauren sitting out on the porch in the dark. She looks up at Amy, her eyes shining with the reflected lamplight and Idiot Amy whispers, ‘She looks at you like somebody who wants to be loved.’

 

“Have you ever had feelings for someone that you know categorically will never like you back?” Amy blurts out as she sends a tray of coffee mugs and saucers through the industrial washer during an early shift at the Twain.

Tyler, standing beside her funneling a bag of fresh coffee beans into the grinder, blinks.

“Uh, I think you just described the queer experience,” he says, lowering the now empty bag, “Why? Are you interested in someone?”

“No!” Amy exclaims quickly, pulling the now clean tray out of the machine and grabbing a towel. She picks up a mug and begins drying it. Then, cautiously, “but if I was…”

Tyler tosses the bag in the trash and slides in next to her, “If you were, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“I feel like I’m making the same mistakes all over again.” Amy admits.

Tyler rests a hand on her shoulder, “You need to take care of yourself. Give yourself some space. Whoever it is, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

 

Giving yourself space from a person you live with turns out to be a logistical nightmare. Amy spends as little time at home as possible. She picks up more shifts at the Twain, forcing Lauren to find other arrangements for transportation to and from her studio. The film festival, which initially seemed like nothing but a nuisance, becomes her godsend. Its litany of tasks keeps her mind busy and provides her with the perfect excuse to spend as much time in her room as possible. On the rare occasions Amy does find herself in the same room as Lauren she has started to mentally recite a mantra to herself. It goes something like, “She’s your step-sister. She’s your step-sister. SHE’S YOUR STEP-SISTER!” repeated over and over until Amy can make a break for it.

 

Dylan takes over the counter and Amy throws her apron in the break room before joining Karma for another planning session. They pull two tables together and spread out over them as they confirm final film selections and layout a tentative program schedule. 

“I’ve been thinking, it’d be really cool to have an opening party for the filmmakers and sponsors,” Karma says as she makes final changes to the content of acceptance email for the chosen participants, “We could invite the volunteers too.”

“It’s a good idea,” Amy agrees. She runs a finger down the schedule, “We have an open block on Friday night. Maybe we can get the Royal to give us their detached lobby space for a few hours.”

“That would be perfect.” Karma says, “Do you want me to get in touch with them about it?”

Amy shakes her head, “No, I’ll do it.” 

She marks the block off with a red sharpie and adds a note to her already packed to-do list.

Karma nudges her slyly, “You know, if we’re going to have a party we’re gonna need music. Think you could get your girlfriend to DJ?”

Amy winces, “Actually, Regan and I broke up.”

Karma looks up, surprised, “Really? When did that happen?”

Amy shrugs, “Around the art show.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Karma says, and Amy can tell she genuinely means it. Karma hesitates for a moment, then covers Amy’s hand with her own and gives it a quick squeeze. The gesture makes Amy smile. Something at the other side of the room catches Karma’s attention, “Speaking of…”

And she could be speaking of art or speaking of being sorry, because in either case the answer would be Liam Booker walking towards them from across the shop. He approaches them cautiously reminding Amy of a video she found during a YouTube binge of a pit-bull tiptoeing around a sleeping cat. 

“Amy,” he gives her a quick nod, “Karma.” He lingers for a moment on Karma’s face before continuing past them to another table. Karma can’t help but turn to watch him go. Amy rolls her eyes. She wonders if they’ll ever get tired of playing this game.

“You should go talk to him,” she says mildly, returning her attention to the schedule.

“What! No!” Karma protests, mouth frozen in a scandalized ‘O.’ Then after a beat she leans forward, “Why, did he say something?”

Amy flips a sharpie at her, Karma doges it then launches her own pen back in response. It bounces off Amy’s shoulder and falls to the floor.

Amy raises and eyebrow, “I’m not picking that up.” 

Karma props an elbow on the table and hides a smile behind her hand. 

 

Eventually Amy’s careful system of avoidance breaks down, or rather Lauren corners her in the hallway and tells her to “cut the shit” and “get in the damn car.” 

“I don’t care if pandas are getting turned into hood ornaments,” Lauren threatens, stalking into Amy’s room, “I need you to get off your ass and drive me to work.”

“Fine.” Amy grumbles closing her computer, “And for your information that submission was about the ecological ramifications of shrimp farming, not pandas. It’s a serious problem.”

Lauren blinks, “What about this interaction makes you think that I care?” 

She’s out the door before Amy can respond. Amy pulls herself up and grabs a pair of sneakers from next to a full-length mirror propped on an angle against her wall. As she stands her reflection quirks an eyebrow as if asking, “Really? This girl?”

“I don’t know!” Amy says as the reflection shakes her head in disapproval, “Maybe mom’s terrible taste in dating is genetic.”

“Now Raudenfeld!” Lauren shouts from downstairs.

Amy finishes lacing up her shoes with a sigh and trots down the stairs.

In the car Lauren tunes the radio to Amy’s favorite station but turns the volume down so that she can talk over it. She rattles off gossip and grievances about the other teachers at the studio, speaking quickly like she’s been saving it all up and is finally able to let it out. Amy’s role is to punctuate the brief moments when Lauren has to break to inhale with “hmm”s and “really?”s , and she fills it with aplomb. By keeping Lauren talking she has little chance of exposing herself.

“So then Casey gets it in her head that it’s a good idea to tell my Under-Six’s that the average height for a ballerina is 5’4” and one of the girls just bursts into tears because everybody in her family is over six foot and she’s convinced her ballet career is over.”

Recognition sparks as Amy remembers the day she wandered the halls of the dance studio and caught the end of Lauren’s class.

“Is that the tall girl with the messy ponytail? The one the other kids were teasing?”

Lauren eyes Amy, puzzled but pleased, “Yeah, Melanie. She’s not a very good. I doubt she’ll ever be a dancer, but she tries the hardest out of any of them.”

“So what did you do?”

“I did what you’re supposed to do with kids; I was nice to her until she calmed down and then I took her to her mom.”

Amy laughs, “Wow, being nice to children? People are gonna think you’ve gone soft.”

Lauren rolls her eyes, “Shut up. It’s really shitty to tell a kid they can’t be what they want to be.” Color rises in her cheeks, “I should know, I’ve had people… doctors,” she corrects, “telling me what I am and who I’m going to be since I was ten. So yeah, I told Melanie that she can’t control what her body is going to be like but she can choose what to do with it. And there are totally six-foot ballet dancers. Casey is full of shit.”

Righteous indignation is a good look for her. Amy feels her heart clench.

“Fuck Casey.” she declares.

“Fuck her.” Lauren agrees emphatically.

“And fuck those doctors too. If they think there’s anything you can’t do they clearly haven’t met you.”

Lauren nods resolutely. 

 

Amy and Karma sit across from each other in the crowded café as Twain customers bustle back and forth grabbing coffee and pastries.

“We are down seven volunteers for the opening Friday screening,” says Amy. 

“Mediterra, The Toucan Pub and Thai Curry Kitchen all agreed to silver level sponsorships,” Karma volleys back.

They’re playing “Good News/Bad News,” a game they’ve come up with where one of them starts by giving an example of something that’s gone wrong since their last meeting and the other has to counter with a piece of good news. They play until they run out of good news. The game doesn’t usually last long.

“The company that was donating their 4k projector for the closing outdoor screening double booked and pulled out,” Amy returns.

“But we found another company willing to donate theirs if we can pay the travel fees,” rebuts Karma.

“The Sheraton offered us fifteen free hotel rooms for visiting filmmakers but we can’t book them because we’re under eighteen.”

“My parents volunteered to be our advisors and sign off on the rooms?” Karma replies weakly.

Amy gives her a look.

Karma holds up her hands in defeat, “Okay, my parents getting involved in anything is never good news. I take it back.”

The door chimes and Lauren walks in, still in her dance clothes. She spots Amy and gives her a wave before stopping at the counter to chat up Dylan.

“Oh good,” Karma mutters tightly, “the wicked bitch of the west is here.”

Amy bristles, “Don’t call her that.” 

“Sorry!” Karma says defensively, “But she did make our lives hell for months trying to out us.”

“She was having a rough time. Plus we actually were lying.” Amy reminds her.

“That’s no excuse for being a total… hey Lauren.” She trails off as Lauren comes up to them, caffeinated drink in hand.

“Karma...” Lauren chirps flashing her biggest fake smile, “have you done something to your hair?”

“No…” say Karma, warily.

“Oh, well it looks flatter.”

As Karma reaches up to self-consciously pat her head Lauren turns to Amy.

“You almost done here? Or am I going to have to wait for you to recap the dangers of seafood for her too,” she asks, holding up air quotes around “dangers of seafood.”

“Hey, shrimp farms are significant contributors to climate change.” Amy replies insistently, “People have clear-cut a huge percentage mangrove forests in Thailand and Vietnam to make space for new farms that completely destroy local fish habitats, which cuts down eco-diversity and limits local food sources and revenue streams. Plus the packing plants are super gross.” 

She shudders, “Seriously, I may never be able to eat shrimp again.”

“Awww Ames! But you love shrimp!” coos Karma with exaggerated sympathy.

“I guess your girlfriend is going to have to find another nickname for you,” Lauren smirks.

Karma’s eyebrows practically shoot off her face. Amy groans while Lauren gives an evil smile.

“Regan used to call me Shrimp Girl,” she mumbles sheepishly.

Karma reacts to the name in much the same way she did to coming back from summer camp to find that her parents home-brewing a particularly foul-smelling batch of kombucha in her bedroom.

“Ugh. That’s the worst pet name I’ve ever heard. If someone tried to call me that I’d break up with them too.”

Lauren registers the statement with surprise. 

“You broke up with Reagan?”

Amy hadn’t intended to keep the break up a secret from Lauren, it happened organically as consequences of avoiding her. Even if she had told her, she wouldn’t have been able to tell her the truth about why they’d broken up. But none of that matters now, because after all they have been through to carve out their hard-won friendship Amy knows that it is nothing less than a betrayal at this point for Karma to know something that Lauren doesn’t. 

Karma starts to say something but Lauren brings up a hand silencing her. She is laser focused on Amy. Amy shifts under the scrutiny. 

“It, like, just happened.” The excuse shoots out of her mouth reflexively.

“Wasn’t the art show was like a month ago?” Karma asks, confused. Amy glares at her, murder in her eyes.

“You broke up at the art show?”

To the untrained eye Lauren would appear indifferent, but Amy has put in hours of study. She knows better.

“After…” she admits, “Like, directly after...”

“You didn’t say anything.” There is just a hint of vulnerability under her words. Amy rushes to reassure her.

“I know. I should have. It was just… complicated.”

“But you told Karma.” And just like that the vulnerability is gone, snapped into anger.

“It… came up.” Amy says weakly.

“Right.” Lauren retorts icily, “I’m going to hang with Dylan. Let me know when you’re ready to leave - if that isn’t too complicated.”

She stalks away, leaving Amy feeling as though she’s swallowed a hot stone.

“Shit.” Amy swears. 

She’s already half way out of her chair before she realizes what’s happening and forces herself to sit back down. She can only do so much though, and after a moment she twists as far as she can to watch Lauren’s retreat.

Karma waits until Lauren’s reached the counter before whipping around on Amy.

“What the hell was that?” the question sounding more like an accusation.

“Nothing.” Amy says, schooling her features into the best approximation of calm that she can manage.

But Karma is undeterred. She looks at Amy, then at Lauren, then back to Amy again as if trying to solve particularly difficult puzzle. Then, like a light bulb coming on in slow motion, comprehension lights over her face.

“Wait…” she mutters, eyes narrowed, “you’re not…”

Amy keeps herself perfectly still, not even daring to breathe. Even so, something about her must confirm Karma’s suspicions.

“NOOO!” She practically shouts, eyes wild.

Amy desperately tries to quiet her.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Karma asks, loud enough that she is attracting attention from the other customers. Amy glances at Lauren who, thankfully, is still engaged in conversation with Dylan.

Amy leans in. “Whatever you think you know? You don’t. Okay?” she says in a forceful whisper.

Karma follows suit, leaning in and lowering her voice. “Don’t give me that. I know you better than anyone. You…” she trails off, searching for the right words, “You have a thing for her. You have a thing for LAUREN.”

She’s gotten loud again. Amy grabs her wrist, clenching it hard. “You need to shut up.”

Karma lets out a strangled laugh, “Lauren? Shit Amy… she’s your step-sister! And she’s fucking evil. God, did I really fuck you up this badly?”

Amy snaps.

“Fuck you Karma!” she exclaims loudly, voice laden with venom, “You aren’t the center of the fucking universe.”

People are definitely looking at them now. Even Lauren has ceased her conversation with Dylan to watch. Amy reaches out blindly shoving whatever papers she can get her hands on into her bag, then walks away leaving Karma behind her. 

“We’re going.” She tells Lauren as she passes her, and Lauren takes one look at her and follows without a word.

 

Bruce and Farrah are gone when they arrive home. There’s a note on the kitchen counter telling the girls that they are meeting a few of Bruce’s co-workers for dinner and won’t be back until late in the night. Amy pretends to read it while she thinks about what to do next. She feels like her whole body is vibrating, about to explode. She heads to the refrigerator and starts pulling things out at random.

“What are you doing?”

Lauren is somewhere behind her. She sounds worried.

“Making dinner.” Amy snaps.

She feels it as Lauren come up beside her.

“Olives, tuna salad, and… turnips?” Lauren sorts through the items Amy has laid out. Amy slumps leaning heavily on the counter, in her hand a jar of pesto from the door of the fridge.

Lauren gently maneuvers the jar out of her grasp, “We can work with this.”

She goes to work, replacing some items in the fridge and pulling out others. She sends Amy to retrieve some whole-wheat pasta from the top shelf of a cabinet. In a few minutes she has water boiling on the stove while Amy cuts up slices of chicken. Lauren adds pasta to the water and drizzles olive oil into a skillet. Amy throws the chicken in with the oil, stirring it occasionally as she listens to it sizzle. Lauren returns with olives and sun-dried tomatoes, adding them to the chicken. She takes the pasta off the burner and drains it. When the excess water is gone she pours the pasta over the meat and vegetables. Amy grabs the jar of pesto and adds a liberal amount to the mixture. As she scoops the finished product into two bowels she notices she’s stopped shaking. 

They eat in silence. Amy is grateful for it. She clears their dishes and washes them, taking her time scrubbing everything clean. Finally there is nothing left to do. Amy wanders into the living room where Lauren is curled into the side of the couch watching TV. It takes less than a moment for Amy to see that she’s upset. The curve of her back, the way she’s tucked her feet under her… Amy wants to gather her up in her arms and soothe her fingers through her hair. She flashes back to her conversation with Karma - realizes Karma will never understand because she’s never seen this - the person under the persona.

Amy takes a seat on the other side of the couch. She lets herself fall back into the cushions. She’s exhausted. All of the worry and anxiety and secrets that she’s been carrying hang like weights around her neck. 

“So you and Karma, you’re friends again?” Lauren breaks the silence, still curled in her position on the couch. Amy can’t quite see her face, angled away on the armrest.

“Kind of” Amy affirms, although friends feels like a strong word at the moment.

“Is that why I don’t see you anymore?” Lauren asks quietly.

Amy doesn’t answer. 

“I’m nobody’s second choice.” Lauren says, finally lifting her head and facing Amy, “If it’s going to go back to the way it was? With you and Karma doing whatever it is you do together? I need you to tell me now.”

“It’s not.” Amy states. Lauren makes a sound of disbelief.

“I know you don’t like Karma…” Amy starts.

“I don’t give a fuck about Karma.” Lauren interrupts, “I care about you. She’s going to hurt you again. And you’re letting her.”

“That won’t happen.” Amy assures her.

“Because Karma is so wonderful…

“Because I don’t like her like that. Not anymore.” 

Lauren doesn’t seem convinced.

“I’m interested in somebody else, okay? That’s what Karma and I were fighting about at the Twain.”

“Another secret.” Lauren scoffs. Her anger is showing again. Amy can see the tightening in her jaw, the clenching of her fists.

“It’s not like that.” Amy protests.

“Fine,” says Lauren, turning back to the TV.

“I’m sorry. I really can’t tell you.” Amy feels herself falling into the familiar exasperation that she seems to reserve specially for Lauren particular brand of frustrating persistance. 

She exhales in a short burst, almost a laugh. 

“I actually started to think we were friends.” 

“Lauren…”

“I told you things!” she says, emotion clouding her voice, “Things I’ve never told anyone! And you won’t even tell me about some stupid crush? I can’t believe -”

“It’s you.” Amy blurts out.

The words fall leaden between them. Amy realizes in horror what she’s done. Worse, what she’s done for a second time.

“What?”

Lauren tilts her head as if listening to a sound she can’t quite understand. Amy’s heart is hammering in her chest. Her face and chest are flushed. She looks around desperate for some kind of escape, but there is none. Not anymore.

“The person I’m interested in…” she bites out, “it’s you.”

Lauren blinks.

“Oh.” 

She blinks again.

“Is that all?”

Amy gawps at her.

“What?”

Now it’s her turn to be confused as Lauren calmly composes herself.

“It was bound to happen sometime, right? “ Lauren says easily, “I mean look at me.” She gestures down her body and Amy can’t help but track the movement of her hands. 

“Are you serious?” Amy chokes.

Lauren stares at her, unwavering.

“Oh my god you are.” 

“It makes sense.” Lauren shrugs, “I’m hot.”

Amy looks at her in disbelief, “You’re crazy…”

Lauren has the audacity to smile, “What does that make you?”

In all the time that Amy had been considering scenarios in which her feelings came to light, she could never have imagined anything like this. She expected a reaction in the realm of disgust, revolution, or at the very least extreme awkwardness. Once she’d even considered that Lauren might try to burn her like a witch. Instead Lauren is calm, even pleased and its Amy who can’t handle it.

She gets up, blinded by uncertainty. 

“This doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Lauren tells her as Amy stumbles past where she’s seated on the couch.

Amy heads upstairs, locking the door to her room behind her. She doesn’t know how long she stands there but at a certain point she can hear Lauren in the hallway and the door closing to the room next door. 

It’s not fair. After all of the agony she’s put herself through she expected a certain level of drama in return. Amy feels almost cheated. She wants Lauren to feel… something. At the very least to share in the awkwardness. Instead Lauren once again has the upper hand. 

Hours later it’s that lingering feeling of unfairness that leads Amy to rap her fist against Lauren’s door in four quick staccato beats. When there’s no answer she repeats the action even louder. 

Finally, a sleepy Lauren appears opening the door. 

“What do you want now?” she asks rubbing her eyes.

“I want you to know that I am going to get over you. “ Amy states quickly, though not as confidently as she’d like. “I’m not an idiot. I know you’re straight, and even if you weren’t we’d be a terrible match. I mean, we’re family for god-sakes.”

Amy crosses her arms triumphantly. Lauren however seems completely unimpressed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I’ll get over it.”

“Okay...” Lauren drawls without resistance.

“Okay.” Amy affirms.

And with that she about-faces and returns to her room, leaving a sleepy blinking Lauren behind her. 

It’s not a win, exactly, but when she lies down in bed she feels a fire building inside her. A new flame licks at the edges of her hopeless romanticism, and it has a name. Competition. She feels it growing inside of her, fueled by Lauren’s smug acceptance that this is the way things should be. That Amy’s emotions are hers to play with by right. Amy vows not to let Lauren get the better of her. Starting tomorrow she will rid herself of these feelings and take her life back or destroy herself trying.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Over the last few days the aftermath of Amy’s confession has spiraled into a kind of war game. The house is the battlefield, the weapons, Lauren’s body and Amy’s indifference."

It’s less than a week until the film festival and Amy walks down the stairs on Saturday morning to the sound of Nancy Guerrera, the weekend weathergirl for WTXS, reporting hundred degree temperatures across the state. Farrah hovers in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room sipping her coffee, eyes on the TV set, while Nancy cheerfully predicts the heat wave will persist throughout the week. Amy smiles. Hate watching the weekend weather is her favorite of Farrah’s guilty pleasures.

“Did she stick out her ass while she was pointing to Lexington?” she asks as she passes.

Farrah tuts disapprovingly, “I swear, every single time...”

Nobody needs Nancy Guerrera to tell them it’s going to be a scorcher. Amy had left her window open overnight and woke up to the smell of the morning sun already sizzling off the pavement. August is always the hottest month of the summer, but it’s unusual for the heat to persist this late. The start of the school year is just around the corner, but in these oppressive temperatures it couldn’t feel further away.

Bruce sits at the kitchen counter, folded over newspaper in hand. Bowls containing yogurt, granola, and berries are laid out with serving spoons in front of him, but Bruce has found himself two pieces of plain whole-wheat toast with butter instead. He takes a large bite, raining down crumbs, and readjusts his paper. 

Amy sits down next to him, helping herself to a bowl and spooning in some yogurt. She adds a scoop of granola and freezes as something brushes across her back. Long blonde hair sweeps like a curtain across the left side of her vision as Lauren leans over her, arm reaching across Amy’s left shoulder. Amy can feel the press of her breasts against her back, the curve of her chin graze her ear. Then, as quickly as she appeared, she is gone, stepping back with a bowl and spoon and making her way to the other side of the counter to help herself to the spread. She settles onto the stool across from Amy. Noticing Amy’s hand, still frozen around the serving spoon, she gives a triumphant smirk.

Amy lets the spoon clatter back into the granola. She’s lost this round and they both know it. Over the last few days the aftermath of Amy’s confession has spiraled into a kind of war game. The house is the battlefield, the weapons, Lauren’s body and Amy’s indifference. All of Amy’s attempts at putting distance between them have met with a myriad of “accidental” touches – a hand on her back here, a casual brush of a shoulder there – actions that could easily be dismissed if it weren’t for the challenging look in Lauren’s eyes. 

It’s hard to gauge what Lauren’s motivations are. Amy glances as covertly as possible across the counter to where Lauren is helping herself to a spoonful of strawberries and blueberries. Is she trying to prove that she’s not so easily gotten over? Or is the idea of having some kind of power over Amy so appealing that she is willing to overlook her disgust just to get a reaction? It occurs to Amy that this whole act may even be Lauren’s way of demonstrating that Amy’s admission of attraction hasn’t scared her off. That it’s just another facet of their already combative and competitive friendship. And then there is that tiny persistent buzzing thought that Amy keeps swatting like a fly that wonders if maybe -

“Honey?”

“Huh?” Amy jolts out of her contemplation.

Lauren’s smirk grows even wider. 

“Pass the honey.”

She gestures to Amy’s right where a bear-shaped bottle of honey sits inches from her hand. Amy picks it up. The bear’s face grins stupidly at her as she passes it over. It seems that even the inanimate objects are mocking her now. As Lauren takes the bottle she lets her fingers deliberately stroke along Amy’s. This time Amy keeps her face smooth and passive, pleasant even, responding to Lauren’s, “Thank you” with a bland smile and an even blander, “You’re welcome.”

Lauren’s smirk drops in favor of cool haughtiness and Amy feels a rush of satisfaction. Her point. 

“Oh, you girls are so polite!”

A beaming Farrah joins them from her spot in the doorway, pulling Amy back to reality. 

“How’s Nancy?” she asks.

Farrah sighs, “Still caking on foundation trying to fool people into thinking she’s thirty.” 

Amy shakes her head. “She never learns.”

Farrah hums in agreement. She looks around the counter, “This is nice! I can’t remember the last time we had everybody in the same place at the same time for a meal. You girls have been so busy!”

“Amy, how’s that project coming?” asks Bruce, looking up from his paper.

“Pretty good.” Amy mumbles around a spoonful of yogurt, before hurriedly swallowing, “We open on Friday. I asked Max for the week off so I can get the festival up and running. Karma and I still have so much to do.”

“You and Karma huh?” says Farrah, so pointedly that she might as well be poking Amy with a sharpened stick.

“It’s not like that.” Amy protests, “We’re friends.” She pauses, remembering their last ugly interaction, “I think…”

Mercifully, Lauren interrupts, “Farrah, are you coming to my performance at the Austin Art Showcase next Sunday?”

Farrah practically glows at the question. A few months ago it wouldn’t even have been asked. 

“Of course, honey! I wouldn’t miss it!” 

“I asked that geek guy… what’s his name?” Lauren turns to Amy, “The one that’s always staring at you?”

Amy flushes. “Uh… Oliver?”

Lauren nods. “Yeah, him. I asked him to film the performance for me. I think it could be a good portfolio piece for college admissions.”

Bruce gives her an approving look, “I’m proud of you girls. Thinking ahead, looking towards college...”

Farrah nods, “I wish I had been as motivated as the both of you when I was in school. Who knows how I would’a turned out.”

Bruce reaches across the table capturing Farrah’s hand in his own and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I think you turned out pretty great.” 

Farrah melts, giving his hand a soft squeeze. Lauren catches Amy’s eye and points a finger into her mouth in an exaggerated impression of gagging. Amy stifles a laugh.

“Girls, we can see you,” Bruce reminds them.

Lauren rolls her eyes, then gives her dad a genuine smile that makes Amy’s heart twist in her chest. At least it does until Lauren catches her looking and that dangerous glint returns. 

“Have I shown you my costume for the performance, Farrah?” Lauren asks.

“No, you most certainly have not!” Farrah exclaims, “Go on, get it.”

“Back in a sec.” Lauren hops off her stool and heads out of the kitchen, her hand brushing, almost imperceptivity, across Amy’s hip as she goes. Amy feels an involuntary heat creep up her neck and into her cheeks, but luckily Lauren is gone before she can see.

As soon as Lauren hits the stairs, Amy digs into her breakfast, practically inhaling the contents of the bowl. With every spoonful she feels herself getting closer to an escape. If anyone asked, Amy would assure them that it’s not that she can’t handle… whatever it is they’re doing. It’s just that it’s too early in the morning to be fielding mind-fucking sexual power plays from her stepsister in the presence of their parents. Not that anyone would ask. Amy hasn’t breathed a word to anyone about her confession or the increasingly strange fallout. Shane would probably go into a drama coma if he knew.

It’s too little too late. Lauren returns just as Amy is shoveling her last spoonful of granola into her mouth. 

She doesn’t choke. Maybe she coughs a little. And if she does, it’s not because of the deep midnight blue dress that skims across Lauren’s thighs, dips low down her sternum between her breasts, crosses over an otherwise open expanse of back… No. It’s because of the way Lauren stares her straight in the eye as she descends each step, daring her not to look away. 

Farrah takes in the dress, “Just beautiful!”

Lauren breaks eye contact with Amy to give the dress a twirl and let Farrah examine it.

“You don’t think it’s a little short?” Bruce wonders.

“Daddy, I’m supposed to dance in it. It should be short.” Lauren turns to Amy, “What about you, Amy? Do you think it’s too short?”

She plays with the hem pulling the dress higher and higher up her thigh. Amy keeps her eyes up, defiant.

“Not sure it’s your color.”

“No?” 

Amy gives a thin smile, “It brings out the bags under your eyes.”

“Is that so?” Lauren challenges, her tone deceptively mild. 

It’s not enough to fool Farrah, who after months of deflecting their skirmishes, steps between them with a warning, “Girls…”

But Lauren doesn’t rise to the bait. 

“It’s fine. Amy’s entitled to her opinion.”

Then she slips past them as if nothing happened, back to the stairs, passing close enough that Amy can smell the lingering scent of her shampoo as she passes. Farrah shrugs and returns to her seat, still none the wiser of the game that is being played around her. Amy, however, clears her bowl to the sink with a jarring clatter. Bruce peers at her over his paper.

“You seem tense.”

“I am tense,” she bites back.

“Golf tomorrow morning?” Bruce asks, unruffled by her sharp response.

Amy sighs, “Sure.” 

Maybe this is what she needs, a few hours away from everything where she can whack the bejeezus out of something with a club.

“Oh that’s a great idea!” Farrah coos, “I’ll see if Lauren wants to go get a manicure. We can make a day out of it!”

“Sounds great!” Amy replies, mimicking her enthusiasm, then quickly ducking as Farrah plucks the newspaper from Bruce’s hands and tries to swat her with it.

 

Amy gets to the Twain early, as if the extra few minutes will somehow prepare her to navigate the fallout of her nuclear meltdown the last time she and Karma were in the same place at the same time. They are still down a few volunteers for the festival, so to pass the time she sips her iced coffee at the counter and tries to convince Dylan to turn over his precious hours of free time to the cause.

“Please Dylan? We really need bodies Friday and Sunday.”

Dylan makes a crisp latticework of chocolate syrup across the top of an iced mocha. “You’re still doing that? I thought you quit.”

“Why would you think that?” 

Dylan he pops a lid on the drink and hands it over to the customer. “I don’t know, maybe because you completely lost your shit on Karma and followed it up with a Tony worthy dramatic exit?” 

“I’m not that dramatic.” Amy complains.

Dylan snorts. “Um, excuse me. The number of fights during the coffee shop hours have gone up like 500% since you started working here.”

Thinking back on her history, he may have a point.

“Fine. I’m dramatic.” Amy admits to Dylan’s obvious satisfaction, “But I also know you aren’t working on Sunday.”

“That’s not free time, that’s gym time. I’m on a new weight lifting regimen.”

He flexes and for once she can see that there actually is a little more muscle on his wiry frame. 

“You know, I just read an article that said studies show that resting between days of working out actually heightens you immune system and is better for your muscles.” Amy tells him.

There’s a beat as Dylan stacks the dirty cups in the washing tray. Then - 

“Fine, I’ll help you out on Sunday. Text me the details.” 

“Yes!” Amy cheers.

“And send me that article!” he shouts as he heads into the back. 

The bell chimes for the front door as he goes, and when Amy turns around Karma is hovering cautiously in the doorway. She takes a deep breath. 

“Hey.”

“Hey…”

“So I need to apologize -” Amy starts.

“Wait.” Karma holds up a hand and Amy pauses. “You may have noticed this, but I kind of have a bad habit of jumping to conclusions. ”

Amy gives a weak laugh, “What… you?”

And to Amy’s great relief, Karma actually smiles. 

“I’m working on it, I really am. And I’m sorry. We were finally getting to a good place and I messed it up.” 

In the old days this would be the part where Amy threw herself into Karma’s arms and tearfully forgiven her. But her eyes are dry and the forgiveness comes, not in a rush of feeling, but as something slow and thick that carries a deeper meaning.

“For the record, I know Lauren isn’t evil.” Karma continues, her voice dropping to a whisper around ‘Lauren’ like she’s trying to be covert, “I’m sure she has many good qualities… somewhere… deep down.”

Amy can’t help but sigh, “Yeah, well, even I’m having trouble finding them right now.”

“Oh…” Karma shifts awkwardly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“…I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Amy says, quickly. “Why don’t we focus on the festival instead?”

Karma lets out a breath of relief. 

“Or we could talk about your stalker…”

“Stalker?” 

Amy gestures behind her to where Liam is sitting at the back table doing his best to seem like he’s paying attention to Shane. 

“I refuse to believe that he likes the coffee here this much.” 

Karma blushes. Amy makes a split second decision.

“Come on.” She grabs Karmas wrist and tugs her towards the back of the shop.

“What? No!” Karma protests, wild-eyed, but Amy keeps a hold of her, marching her up to the table where Shane and Liam sit.

“Hey guys!” Amy says in a cheery voice that has them both looking at her like she’s been replaced by an alien in a skin suit, “How would you like to volunteer for a good cause?”

Shane narrows his eyes, “Amy, I thought I made it explicitly clear, I will not participate in anything that requires a matching t-shirt.”

Amy ignores him, turning to Liam, “What about you Booker? I know Karma could use some help running the party on Friday. Right Karma?”

Karma opens and closes her mouth like a fish on dry land before grinding out, “Right,” with a glare at Amy.

Liam grins, “Yeah! I’m totally in. Whatever you need.”

“Fine! I’ll do it!” Shane interrupts, “God, stop peer pressuring me! It’s not okay.”

Amy rolls her eyes, “I will put you down for Sunday, Shane.”

And with that she pulls Karma away to a far table. 

“Why would you do that?” Karma hisses as they take their seats. Amy thinks it over.

“50% revenge, 50% friendship.”

 

Amy eats a quiet dinner with Farrah and Bruce. According to Farrah, Lauren is out rehearsing for the art show and won’t be back until after they’ve eaten. Amy volunteers to clean up. As she takes the dishes back to the kitchen she glances into the next room where her mother has tucked herself under Bruce’s arm as they settle on the couch, looking for all the world like two overgrown teenagers. 

Lauren slips in while Amy is stacking the dishwasher. Amy nods towards the living room and Lauren sneaks a look, coming back with that soft expression Amy remembers her wearing at the wedding while Bruce and Farrah danced.

“Disgusting, right?” Amy whispers.

Lauren gives a wistful smile, “So gross.”

She watches as Amy fits the last few plates in the remaining slots.

“Liam would not shut up about your festival at rehearsal. Apparently he’s working with Karma.”

Amy shrugs. “She needed the help.”

“And you’re good with it?” Lauren asks.

The question appears casual, but her sharp eyes, searching Amy’s face for signs of distress, betray a deeper concern. 

“It was my idea.” Amy assures her.

“Well he’s freaking out. I seriously can’t believe I ever thought he was cool. He asked me to help him pick out what to wear.”

“And did you?”

“Please, he could show up dressed like the teacher from Glee and Karma would still soak her panties.”

Amy makes a face of absolute disgust at the thought.

“You are so evil! Why do you do this to me? Now I will have that mental image forever.”

Lauren smirks, jutting out a hip in a way that forces her already cropped top to ride up and away from her dance shorts. “Aww Amy, I thought you liked a bad girl?” she purrs, in a voice not unlike Jessica Rabbit.

It’s so over the top, so utterly ridiculous, that a deep, full-bodied laugh breaks from Amy without warning. For a second Lauren seems annoyed, but then she cracks too, joining in. 

“Does that actually work on the dudes you date?” Amy asks when she can finally form sentences again.

Lauren wipes her fingers under her eyes, composing herself. “Yeah, basically. Guys aren’t that smart.”

And Amy, emboldened by endorphins or momentary insanity, steps towards Lauren, leaning in close enough to brush her lips against her ear. “I’ll let you in on a secret… I’m not a guy.”

Then she sways back, catching half a second of Lauren’s stunned face before walking away without a second glance.

 

It’s too hot to play a full eighteen holes, so she and Bruce take turns hiding in the shade of the golf cart while they play through the back nine. Amy’s first three swings have her slicing the ball low and to the right.

“You’ve got too much tension in your left arm!” Bruce shouts from behind her, “You have to relax and rotate.”

“I don’t know what that means!” Amy yells back, frustrated.

She grips the club tighter; her plan to take out her frustrations is crumbling by the minute with each failed swing winding her up even tighter.

“You’ve got a great aggressive swing,” Bruce tells her, climbing out of the cart, “but you need to relax.”

“I thought the golf was supposed make me relax.” Amy grumbles.

Bruce smiles, “It’s not that it makes you relax, it’s that it teaches you to relax.” He reaches for Amy’s club, she hands it over, “When rookies start they think the game is about hitting the ball - so they choke up, stop the swing at the point of impact.” He demonstrates a short swing with a stiff left arm, “But the longer you play you realize it’s not really about the ball at all. It’s about you. To get a good clean backswing you need to let go of all the things, in your mind and your body, that drive you nuts. When you can do that, all you have to do is follow the swing.” He swings again, this time allowing his left arm to bend and his hips to rotate, following the line of the club.

He hands the club back to her.

“You sound like you’re auditioning to play the coach in an inspirational golf movie,” Amy drawls. 

Bruce just shrugs and takes a step back. 

Amy takes a moment, letting the heat sink into her muscles, focusing on the smell of the grass, the sound of a passing insect. When she brings the club back her arms feel weightless. Then as she brings it down she lets them be heavy again, driving forward. She follows them with her body, her hips, her chest, and at the same time she realizes that her left arm is in the same position Bruce demonstrated, she sees a tiny white ball drop out of the sky and onto the green.

Bruce whoops in celebration, “That’s how it’s done!”

They play through the rest of the holes and by the time they are finished Amy is dripping with sweat and pretty sure she's sunburned, but she feels like the weight of the last few weeks has lifted. Bruce takes her to the clubhouse and buys her a soda. Amy restrains herself from picking out the ice and holding it on the back of her neck.

“Feeling better?” Bruce asks.

“I really am. Thanks for this.” Amy replies, sucking up the last of the fizzing liquid.

“You and Lauren getting along okay?” 

“We’re fine,” says Amy, cautious, “Why, has she said something?”

Bruce shakes his head, “I just noticed you haven’t been spending as much time together.”

“We’ve both been busy.” She keeps her voice neutral, her face still. Nothing to give away the truth of what has been happening under their roof.

“That’s what I figured,” he says, apparently pacified, “Well I’m glad. I like the two of you together.”

Amy is beyond grateful for her sunburn, which masks the otherwise distinctive flush that takes over at his words. She knows what Bruce means, but wishes she could point out how it sounds, because that’s the sort of thing you say about a couple, and she can’t deal with both Coopers messing with her head.

 

Later, his words still ring in her ears as Amy watches Lauren talk to Tyler on the other side of the Twain while she folds programs for the film festival. She quickly turns her attention back to the glossy printed paper as Lauren breaks away and comes over.

“Nice manicure.” Amy greets her.

Lauren examines her newly painted nails, deep blue to match the dress for her showcase, with satisfaction. “It was nice of Farrah to take me.” She takes in Amy’s red face and neck, “I think I got the better end of the deal. You look like a fire hydrant.”

“Thanks,” Amy says, sourly.

“Does it hurt?” asks Lauren. Her fingers twitch as if they want to reach out and touch.

Amy shrugs. “It’s fine. I plan on drowning myself in some aloe later.”

Lauren checks her phone, “I should get going. I’ve got a class in fifteen minutes.” 

“You need a ride home?”

She waves her off. “One of the girls from the studio will take me.”

Lauren turns to go, but as she does her bag hits the pile of folded programs, knocking a few to the ground. Before Amy can get up, Lauren is bending over, her ass practically in Amy’s face. She’d have chalked the move up as a coincidence if it weren't for Lauren looking over her shoulder and shooting Amy an exaggerated wink.

Amy snorts, “Still not working.”

Lauren stands, actually pouting. Amy laughs. If this is the game Lauren wants to play it’s one she can handle. Even though Lauren is adorable pretending to be offended, the fact that they are no longer taking Amy’s interest seriously means that she can more easily put it aside. Lauren hands her the programs and heads out. Amy gives her a little sarcastic wave when she reaches the door. Lauren flicks her the bird in response.

“Did she just?”

Amy looks up to find Karma, who it seems reappeared from the restroom just in time to witness Lauren’s little display. 

“We agreed not to talk about this.” Amy reminds her.

“But…” Karma gestures agitatedly between Amy and the space Lauren occupied less than a minute before.

“Nope.” Amy says, popping the ‘p’, “Now hand me another stack of programs.”

 

By the time they finish the programs, finalize the volunteer schedule, confirm the pick up for their rentals, and mediate an argument between the Marine Biology Club and the Radical Recyclers over table space – with the Recyclers arguing the Marine Biologists were spreading over their two allotted card tables and the MBC countering that the world’s surface was 71% water, so they should be granted a proportional amount of table space – all the other Twain customers have left and the night staff has begun setting up the bar. Tyler comes by and drops two muffins at their table.

“On the house.”

Amy takes one with reverence, “Tyler, you beautiful god among men, have I told you how much I love you?”

“I’m taking that as a thank you,” he says with a laugh.

“Thank you, Tyler.” Karma says, snagging the second muffin.

Tyler points to the bar. “I talked to Brad and Vanessa. They say you should be good here for another hour, but you’re probably gonna want to be out by ten unless you find strobe lights and Katy Perry remixes helpful to your workflow.”

Karma looks over their open computers and scratched up notepads. “We’re almost done. I think we’ll be out of here soon.”

“Sounds good. Amy, I’ll see you in a week?” 

“Bright and early on Monday.” Amy replies, letting her opinion of Monday morning work on the day after wrapping a film festival drip from every word, “Oh, and here,” she shoves a program in his hangs, “you should come by.”

“Cool. I’ll see if Margret wants to go.” He taps the program to his cap in a salute.

They work for another thirty minutes before Amy calls it a night. “Not to jinx us or anything, but I think this thing might actually happen.”

Karma knocks her fist on the wooden table, “Stop tempting fate!”

“Come on Karma.” Amy pushes, “We have contingency plans for everything. Even I can’t see anything going wrong at this point.”

 

When Amy gets home the house is quiet and dark. She kicks off her shoes and drops her bag by the stairs. The flickering light from the next room tells her at least someone is awake and she follows it, finding Lauren curled up on the couch watching a silly teen show. Lauren sees her come in and offers a simple, “Hey,” before turning back to the TV.

“Hey,” Amy takes a seat on the other side of the couch, “Where are the ‘rents?” 

Lauren snorts, “Already in bed.”

Amy nods sympathetically, “Weathergirl hours.”

“You have fun with Karma?” Lauren asks, sounding certain no fun was to be had.

Amy ignores the sarcasm, “It was good. We got a lot done. You have rehearsal?”

“Mmmhmm,” Lauren hums, eyes still on the screen.

Amy yawns. “Too bad the festival is the same weekend. I like seeing you dance.”

Now Lauren is looking at her.

“I like having you watch me,” she says, softly.

Amy feels her chest grow tight, the tension she thought she’d dispelled coming back in force.

“I can give you a preview if you want?” Lauren offers, pulling herself up on the couch.

“Sure.” Amy says, not at all sure what she is agreeing to.

Lauren stands, moving around the back of the couch to a patch of bare floor.

“So the concept of the dance is to connect the movement of the three statues. They represent a pirouette, a jeté, and an arabesque. I’m supposed to be the animate version them. So in front of the first one I do a series of triple pirouettes. Like this -”

She spreads her legs apart and then lifts her right leg to hip height, dropping her toe to form a triangle at her left knee, and spins three times, landing neatly with her arms out.

“It’s faster with my shoes,” she says, almost apologetically, “Anyway, then I do this sequence that leads into the jeté - the jump -”

Laure does a series of turns and step outs across the room before turning back and launching into a jumping mid-air split. There is something beautiful in the incongruity of seeing the moves not in a theater or practice room, but in front of Farrah’s potted plants and the enormous Raudenfeld DVD collection. Lauren checks on Amy, pleased to find her paying attention.

“Then I end next to the last one…” Lauren trails off, “…here, stand up.”

Amy swings her legs over the back of the couch, standing as requested.

“So if you’re the sculpture and you have your arm out like this…” 

She gently touches Amy’s arm, adjusting it until it reaches out, almost fully extended. 

“Then I would…” 

And she slowly squares her shoulders and rises onto her toes, bringing one leg up until it’s almost even with her head. With her right hand she reaches forward until her fingertips brush against Amy’s.

Lauren holds the pose and Amy starts to count the beats of the blood thumping in her ears. Her skin feels pricked with electric shocks, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop looking at Lauren, who wears a look of concentration, but also openness and joy and strength and vulnerability. So much that Amy couldn’t possibly look away, even if she wanted to. And then it transforms into something else – victory.

“Got you.”

Amy breaks the connection, pulling back her hand.

“What?”

Lauren lowers her leg, her expression smug. “I got you. Who would have guessed you have a thing for ballet?”

Amy wants to yell, to throw something, because this isn’t fair. This is against the rules. Because the last few minutes weren’t a game to her, and suddenly whatever notions she had about competition and "winning" seem painfully juvenile. 

“What the fuck…?” she spits, not bothering to hide her anger.

Lauren suddenly looks uncertain.

“I was just playing.” 

She takes a step back and without realizing it Amy follows her.

“You want to play? You want me to want you?” 

Amy takes a step closer, then another, closing the distance between them. When she’s close enough she leans in, slowly, deliberately, like she did the night before, but this time she doesn’t aim to one side. Amy keeps her eyes trained on Lauren’s lips, making the impending kiss unmistakable until the last moment when Lauren jumps away from her. Amy pins her with a hard look.

“That’s what I thought.”

Still only inches away, Lauren seems shaken, all traces of smugness gone.

Abruptly, the fight goes out of her. This isn’t what she wants. Certainly not to scare Lauren away, or punish her for not reciprocating Amy’s interest. She steps away, leaning against the back of the couch, her eyes glued to the ground, ashamed of what she just pulled.

“I’m sorry.” Amy murmurs, “I didn’t mean to do that.” She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She stares at them and remembers that it was only this morning that she was on a golf course with Bruce learning the difference between swinging for the ball and swinging through. She takes his advice, letting the next words flow out of her instead of forcing them.

“I’m tired of games. I’m a person, not an ego boost. I don’t need you using me to make yourself feel better and then pretending you’re doing me a favor. So can we just stop? Before I get hurt?”

She risks a glance up at Lauren, who has always been so much better at masking her emotions. But it seems even she doesn’t have a handle on this one.

“Yeah, she says thickly, “We can stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, 
> 
> You're probably bored of me saying sorry by now. Instead I'll give you some life advice. Try not to work for anyone who describes themselves as a "non-linear thinker." You'll thank me later.
> 
> xoxo  
> Tiz


End file.
